Title: The Loom of Youth
Author: Waugh, Alec, 1898-1981
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Loom of Youth" ***


THE LOOM OF YOUTH


     "Well, I mean there's Davenham now and--"

     "Davenham!" came the scornful retort. "What does it matter what
     happens to Davenham? He's absolutely useless to the House,
     rotten at games and spends his whole time reading about
     fossils. Who cares a curse about Davenham!"

     "Oh I suppose you're right, but--"

     "My dear ass, of course I am right. Meredith is a simply
     glorious fellow. Do you remember the way he brought down
     Freeman in the Two Cock? Why, the House simply couldn't get on
     without him."

     To Gordon all this conveyed very little. He had no idea who
     Meredith or Davenham were. The only thing he realised was that
     for those who wore a blue and gold ribbon laws ceased to exist.
     It was apparently rather advantageous to get into the Fifteen.
     He had not looked on athletics in that light before. Obviously
     his preparatory school had failed singularly to keep level with
     the times. He had always been told by the masters there that
     games were only important for training the body. But at
     Fernhurst they seemed the one thing that mattered. To the
     athlete all things are forgiven. There was clearly a lot to
     learn.



     "To him who desireth much, much is given; and to him who
     desireth little, little is given; but to neither according to
     the letter of his desire."

GILBERT CANNAN



_The Loom of Youth_


ALEC WAUGH

Methuen

First published in Great Britain 1917
Reprinted July 1917, August 1917, September 1917 (twice)
November 1917, January 1918, March 1918, October 1918,
1919, 1921, 1930, 1933, 1945
Cassell's Pocket Library, 1928
Penguin Abridged Edition, 1942
New edition reset and revised 1955
Reprinted 1972

This edition published 1984
by Methuen London Ltd
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE

Copyright (c) Alec Waugh 1917
ISBN 0 413 54970 4 (hardback)
ISBN 0 413 54980 1 (paperback)

Printed and bound in Great Britain
by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd
Bungay, Suffolk

This book is available in both a hardcover and paperback edition. The
paperback is solid subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
without the Publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected in text. There is
one place where a subscript is used and is designated by an underscore
and curly brackets thus: H_{2}O.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Dedicatory Letter to Arthur Waugh_


My Dear Father,

This book, which I am bringing you, is a very small return for all you
have given me. In every mood, in every phase of my shifting pilgrimage,
I have found you ever the same--loving, sympathetic, wise. You have been
with me in my success, and in my happiness, in my failures and in my
disappointments, in the hours when I have followed wandering fires.
There has never yet come to me a moment when I did not know that I had
but to stretch out my hand to find you at my side. In return for so
much, this first book of mine is a very small offering.

But yet I bring it to you, simply because it is my first. For whatever
altars I may have raised by the wayside, whatever ephemeral loyalties
may have swayed me, my one real lodestar has always been your love, and
sympathy, and guidance. And as in life it has always been to you first
that I have brought my troubles, my aims, my hopes, so in the world of
ideas it is to you that I would bring this, the first-born of my dreams.

Accept it. For it carries with it the very real and very deep love of a
most grateful son.

A.W.



CONTENTS


Preface                      _page_ 9


BOOK I: WARP AND WOOF

I Groping                          15

II Finding his Feet                21

III The New Philosophy             31

IV New Faces                       44

V Emerging                         52

VI Clarke                          62

VII When One is in Rome            69


BOOK II: THE TANGLED SKEIN

I Quantum Mutatus                  79

II Healthy Philistinism           102

III Tin Gods                      119

IV Through a Glass Darkly         130


BOOK III: UNRAVELLING THE THREADS

I Common Room Faces               134

II Carnival                       169

III Broadening Outlook            179

IV Thirds                         185

V Dual Personality                196

VI The Games Committee            200

VII Rebellion                     208

VIII The Dawning of many Dreams   213


BOOK IV: THE WEAVING

I The Twilight of the Gods        226

II Setting Stars                  239

III Romance                       242

IV The Dawn of Nothing            249

V The Things that Seem            259

VI The Tapestry Completed         277



PREFACE TO NEW EDITION


Books have their fates and this one's has been curious. I wrote it
between January and March 1916, when I was seventeen and a half years
old and in camp at Berkhamsted with the Inns of Court O.T.C. I loathed
it there, everything about it, the impersonal military machine, the
monotonous routine of drills and musketry, the endless foot-slogging,
the perpetual petty fault-finding. I kept comparing my present life with
that which I had been leading ten, eighteen, thirty months ago at
Sherborne, as a schoolboy.

My four years there had been very happy. I was the kind of a boy who
gets the most out of a public school. I loved cricket and football and
was reasonably good at them. I was in the first XV and my last summer
headed the batting averages. My father had lit in me a love of poetry
and an interest in history and the classics. More often than not I went
into a class-room looking forward to the hour that lay ahead. I enjoyed
the whole competitive drama of school life--the cups and caps and form
promotions. As I marched as a cadet over Ashridge Park I remembered that
a year ago I had been bicycling down to the football field for a punt
about on Upper. As I listened to a lecture on the establishment of an
infantry brigade, I thought of the sixth form sitting under that fine
scholar and Wordsworthian Nowell Smith to a discussion of Victorian
poetry. In the evenings on my way to night operations, passing
Berkhamsted School and looking at the lighted windows, I would think,
"At Sherborne now they are sitting round the games study fire waiting
for the bell to ring for hall". Day by day, hour by hour, I pictured
myself back at school.

I was in a nostalgic mood, but I was also in a rebellious mood.
Intensely though I had enjoyed my four years at Sherborne, I had been in
constant conflict with authority. That conflict, so it seemed to me, had
been in the main caused and determined by authority's inability or
refusal to recognise the true nature of school life. The Public School
system was venerated as a pillar of the British Empire and out of that
veneration had grown a myth of the ideal Public School boy--Kipling's
Brushwood Boy. In no sense had I incarnated such a myth and it had been
responsible, I felt, for half my troubles. I wanted to expose it. Those
moods of nostalgia and rebellion fused finally in an imperious need to
relive my school days on paper, to put it all down, term by term,
exactly as it had been, to explain, interpret, justify my point of view.

I wrote the book in six and a half weeks, getting up at half past four
every morning and returning to my manuscript at night after the day's
parades. I posted it, section by section, to my father who corrected the
spelling and punctuation, interjected an occasional phrase and sent it
to be typed. I never revised it. As the manuscript shows, it was printed
as it was written, paragraph by paragraph.

The book after two or three refusals was accepted by Grant Richards and
published in July 1917 in the same week that I was posted as a
machine-gun second-lieutenant to the B.E.F. in France. It could not have
come out under luckier auspices. It had an immediate news value. There
was a boom in soldier poets. Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, Robert
Nichols, W.J. Turner had recently made their debuts. Here was a soldier
novelist, the first and in his teens. As always in war-time there was a
demand for books and there was that summer a dearth of novels. A spirit
of challenge and criticism was in the air. The war after three years was
still "bogged down" and public opinion attributed allied failings in the
field to mismanagement in high places. The rebelliousness of _The Loom
of Youth_ was in tune with the temper of the hour. Finally I had the
immense advantage of being the son of Arthur Waugh. My father as a
critic and a publisher was one of the most loved and respected figures
in the world of letters. Many were anxious to give his son a chance.

The book had a flattering reception. Nothing of any particular interest
was being published at the moment and reviewers welcomed it. J.C.
Squire, Gerald Gould, Ralph Straus, C.K. Scott-Moncrieff, E.B. Osborn,
all made it their book of the week. Nor was it noticed only in the book
sections. Richards had suggested that Thomas Seccombe who was then
history professor at Sandhurst and had introduced the book to him,
should write a preface. That preface discussed the Public School system
in the light of contemporary events. The system, Seccombe wrote, "has
fairly helped, you may say, to get us out of the mess of August 1914.
Yes, but it contributed heavily to get us into it." The preface
encouraged and helped a journalist to use the book as the text for a
general article. Within a month it had received twenty-four columns of
reviews and was in its third impression. Grant Richards told my father
that with any luck he would sell five thousand copies.

That was at the end of the August. Three weeks later the schools went
back and half the housemasters in the country found their desks littered
with letters from anxious parents demanding an assurance that their
Bobbie was not subject to the temptations described in this alarming
book. In self-defence the schoolmasters hit back and by mid-November the
book had become the centre of violent controversy. In many schools the
book was banned and several boys were caned for reading it. Canon Edward
Lyttleton, the ex-headmaster of Eton, wrote a ten-page article in _The
Contemporary_--then an influential monthly--explaining how biased and
partial a picture the school gave. _The Spectator_ ran for ten weeks and
_The Nation_ for six a correspondence filling three or four pages an
issue in which schoolmaster after schoolmaster asserted that whatever
might be true of "Fernhurst", at his school it was all very different.
Grant Richards adeptly fanned the conflagration. He had initiated that
summer an original style of advertising. He inserted each week in the
_Times Literary Supplement_ a half column of gossip about his books and
authors. It was set in small heavy black type, and caught the eye.
Richards was a good writer and it was very readable. He was, I think,
the first publisher to exploit the publicity value of unfavourable
comment. Richard Hughes, at that time in the sixth form at Charterhouse,
wrote, as his weekly essay, an attack on _The Loom of Youth_. His form
master, Dames Longworth, a fine old Tory, sent it up to _The Spectator_,
as a counterblast to such "pernicious stuff". Next week Grant Richards
quoted him. Mr Dames Longworth called the book "pernicious stuff", but
Clement Shorter prophesied in _The Sphere_ that it would prove "the
Uncle Tom's Cabin of the Public School system". By Christmas the book
was a best seller.

A modern reader will wonder what all this fuss and indignation was
about. Two points are to be remembered. First that before World War I
Britain's imperial destiny was never questioned, and the Public School
system as a bulwark of Empire was held sacrosanct. Second that no book
before _The Loom of Youth_ had accepted as part of the fabric of School
life the inevitable emotional consequences of a monastic herding
together for eight months of the year of thirteen year old children and
eighteen year old adolescents. On that issue such a complete conspiracy
of silence had been maintained that when fathers were asked by their
wives, and schoolmasters by parents who had not themselves been at
public schools whether "such things really could take place", the only
defence was a grudging admission, "Perhaps in a bad house, in a bad
school, in a bad time."

I followed the controversy with mixed feelings. I was delighted of
course at the book's success. At the same time I was distressed at being
accused of having libelled the school where I had been so happy, to
which I was so devoted, and to so many of whose masters--in particular
its headmaster--I owed so much.

Well, that is all a long long time ago, and usually nothing is more dead
and dated than the book which once caused controversy. Yet _The Loom of
Youth_ has continued to sell steadily from one year to the next; in 1928
it was included in Cassell's Pocket Library; in 1942 it was issued as a
Penguin and now that the original plates are wearing out, Mr Martin
Secker and the directors of The Richards Press feel that it is worth
their while to reset the type and give the book another lease of life. I
hope that their confidence will be justified. If it is, it will be for
reasons very different from those which made _The Loom of Youth_ a best
seller in 1917. The modern reader will find nothing here to shock or
startle him. Several years ago a friend was reading the book in my
company. "When do I reach _the_ scene?" he asked. I looked over his
shoulder. "You've passed it, ten pages back," I told him. At the same
time the book is not presented as a "period piece". Though England
to-day is a different country, socially and economically, from what it
was in 1911 when I went to Sherborne, I do not think that in essentials
the life of the Public School boy has greatly changed. Most schools are
larger than they were, but they have retained the same traditions and
ideals; there is the same atmosphere of rivalry and competing loyalties;
youth has the same basic problems, is fired by the same ambitions, beset
by the same doubts. And if the modern reader, after turning a page or
two finds his attention held and wants to go on reading, it will mean
that this book has become at last what in fact it was always meant to
be--a realistic but romantic story of healthy adolescence set against
the background of an average English Public School.

April, 1954.

Alec Waugh



BOOK I: WARP AND WOOF

    "While I lived I sought no wings,
      Schemed no heaven, planned no hell;
    But, content with little things,
      Made an earth and it was well."

    RICHARD MIDDLETON.



CHAPTER I: GROPING


There comes some time an end to all things, to the good and to the bad.
And at last Gordon Caruthers' first day at school, which had so combined
excitement and depression as to make it unforgettable, ended also.
Seldom had he felt such a supreme happiness as when he stepped out at
Fernhurst station, and between his father and mother walked up the
broad, white road that led past the Eversham Hotel to the great grey
Abbey, that watches as a sentinel over the dreamy Wessex town. There are
few schools in England more surrounded with the glamour of mediæval days
than Fernhurst. Founded in the eighth century by a Saxon saint, it was
the abode of monks till the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Then after a
short interregnum Edward VI endowed it and restored the old curriculum.
The buildings are unchanged. It is true that there have sprung up new
class-rooms round the court, and that opposite the cloisters a huge
yellow block of buildings has been erected which provides workshops and
laboratories, but the Abbey and the School House studies stand as they
stood seven hundred years ago. To a boy of any imagination, such a place
could not but waken a wonderful sense of the beautiful. And Gordon
gazing from the school gateway across to the grey ivy-clad studies was
taken for a few moments clean outside himself. The next few hours only
served to deepen this wonder and admiration. For Fernhurst is prodigal
of associations. The School House dining-hall is a magnificent
oak-panelled room, where generations of men have cut their names; and
above the ledge on which repose the silver challenge cups the house has
won, is a large statue of King Edward VI looking down on the row of
tables. When he first entered the hall, Gordon pitied those in other
houses immensely. It seemed to him that though in "the outhouses"--as
they were called at Fernhurst--the eugenic machinery might be more up to
date, and the method of lighting and heating far more satisfactory, yet
it could not be the same there as in the School House; and he never
quite freed himself of the illusion that, if the truth were known, every
outhouse boy rather regretted that he had not chosen otherwise. For
indeed the bloods of other houses are very often found sitting over the
fire in the School House games study.

Until about six o'clock Gordon could not have been happier, his future
seemed so full of possibilities. But when his father and mother left him
to catch the afternoon train back to town, and the evening train brought
with it a swarm of boys in the most wonderful ties and socks, and all so
engrossed in their own affairs, and so indifferent to his, Gordon began
to feel very lonely. Supper was not till nine and he had three hours to
put in. Very disconsolately he wandered round the green slopes above the
town where was the town football ground and where in the summer term
those members of the Fifteen who despised cricket would enjoy their
quiet pipe and long for the rains of November. But that walk did not
take long, especially as he did not dare to go out of the sight of the
Abbey for fear of getting lost. When he returned to the House the court
was loud with shouts and laughter. Everyone had something to do. There
was the luggage to fetch from the day-room. The town porter, known
generally as Slimy Tim, was waiting to be tipped. Health certificates
had to be produced. There was a sporting chance of finding in Merriman's
second-hand bookshop--out of bounds during term-time--an English version
of Vergil and Xenophon. There were a hundred things to do for everyone
except Gordon. There were several other new boys, doubtless, to be found
among this unending stream of bowler hats. But he saw no way of
discovering them. He did, it is true, make one attempt. Very bravely he
walked up to a rather bored individual who was leaning against the door
that led into the studies and asked him if he was a new boy. His
reception was not friendly. The person in question was Sandham of the
Lower Sixth, who had been made a house prefect and was very conscious of
it, and who was also well aware of the fact that he was not very tall.
His friends called him "The Cockroach"; and Gordon was told politely to
go elsewhere. He did not, however, go where he was told, but sauntered
sadly down to the matron's room, only to find it full of people all with
some complaint. Some had lost their keys, others were furious that their
people should have been charged for biscuits and sultana cake that they
had never had, but the greater part were wanting to know why the old
bathroom had been turned into a study for the Chief's secretary, while
they had been given in exchange a lot of small zinc hip-baths. To the
smaller members of the House this change was rather popular. On the days
when there were only four baths among eighty, it did not matter very
much to them how large they were, if they were always occupied by the
bloods, while however small the new baths might be, there were
sufficient to go round. The bloods did not look on the matter in this
light.

Gordon walked from room to room utterly miserable. Nobody took the
slightest notice of him, only one person asked his name, and that was a
small person of one term's standing who wanted to show that he was a
power in the land. At last, however, the old cracked bell rang out for
supper, and very thankfully he took his place among the new boys at the
bottom of the day-room table. Evening prayers in the School House had
once been rather a festive occasion, and a hymn chosen by the head of
the House was sung every night. It had been the custom to choose a hymn
with some topical allusion. For instance, on the evening when the House
tutor had given a hundred lines to every member of the day-room for
disturbing a masters' meeting, by playing cricket next door, they chose
_Fierce raged the Tempest o'er the Deep_; and on one occasion when an
unpopular prefect had been unexpectedly expelled the House was soothed
with the strains of _Peace, Perfect Peace_. But those days were over. A
new headmaster had come with an ear for music, and the riot of melody
that surged from the V. A table seemed to him not only blasphemous, but
also inartistic. And so hymn-singing stopped, and only a few prayers
were read instead.

On this particular evening the Chief was in high spirits. It was
characteristic of his indomitable kindliness and optimism that, though
he ended every term in a state of exhaustion, having strained his energy
and endurance to the breaking-point, he invariably began the new term in
a spirit of geniality and hope. It was not till years later that Gordon
came to understand the depth of unselfish idealism that burned behind
the quiet modesty of the Chief; but even at first sight the least
impressionable boy was conscious of being under the influence of an
unusual personality. There was nothing of the theatrical pedagogue about
him; he surrounded himself with no trappings of a proud authority. His
voice was gentle and persuasive; his smile as winning almost as a
child's. The little speech with which he welcomed the House back, and a
passing allusion, half humorous, half appealing, to the changes in the
bath-rooms were perhaps too homely to impress the imagination of the
average inhuman boy. But they were the sincere expression of the man--an
idealist, with an unfailing faith in human nature, founded in an even
deeper faith in Christianity.

When he had gone, Gordon ventured to look round at the sea of faces. On
a raised dais was the Sixth Form table. In the middle, haughty,
self-conscious, with sleepy-looking but watchful eyes, sat the captain
of the House, Lovelace major, in many ways the finest athlete Fernhurst
ever produced, who had already got his County cap and played "Rugger"
for Richmond. Gordon had seen him bat at Lord's for the Public Schools
_v._ M.C.C., and before he had come to Fernhurst, Lovelace had been the
hero of his imagination; ambition could hardly attain a higher pedestal.

There were about twelve in all at the Sixth Form table, of whom the
majority were prefects; and no one could leave the hall till one of them
went out. After a few minutes' conversation, in which no one ate
anything, although plates of hot soup were busily provided, someone got
up and went out. Immediately there was a rush towards the door, and
Gordon was borne down the long winding passage to the foot of the
stairs that led to the dormitories. Here, however, for some reason,
everyone stopped and began to talk at the top of their voices. Gordon
saw no reason for the delay, but thought it better to follow the throng,
and waited. As a matter of fact, the last train up from town had just
come in. There are some who always demand the last ounce of flesh; there
are always those who return by the last possible train, although it
stops at every station on the way. Suddenly, however, the House tutor
shouted from the top of the stairs, "Lights out in the upper dormitories
by nine-thirty," and the procession moved upstairs.

The upper dormitories in the School House were, like most other school
dormitories, a dismal spectacle. There was a long passage running down
from the House tutor's room, and on the left were doors leading into
long, bare rooms, with the usual red-quilted beds and the usual
wash-hand basins. On the right-hand side was the bathroom. The upper
dormitories were occupied by the smaller boys of the House. Once a
prefect had been put in charge over each room, but the system did not
work very well, and soon came to an abrupt end, so that there was only
the House tutor to keep them in order till the prefects went to bed in
the lower dormitories an hour later; and then any sound was promptly
dealt with. Gordon had been placed in the largest room, which was known
as "the nursery." It contained ten beds, and only four of its
inhabitants were of more than one term's standing. Among other less
enviable claims to fame, it had the reputation of being the finest
football-playing dormitory, and every night its members would race up
from supper to play their game before the House tutor came to put out
lights at nine-fifteen. The new boys took it in turns to keep "cave,"
and it must be owned that for the first few weeks the sentinel rather
preferred the rôle of onlooker to that of player, and found it hard to
sympathise with those who were continually flinging abuse at the huge
football crowds at Stamford Bridge. This night there was, of course,
hardly any ragging. There was so much to talk about, and some faint
interest was even taken in the new boys, for two very important-looking
young people, Turner and Roberts, swaggered into the dormitories "just
to have a squint at the new kids," but after a casual inspection Turner
said in a lordly manner, "Good lord! what a crew," and the pair sought
better things elsewhere. Turner and Roberts were very insignificant
people during the daytime: they were little use at games, and even a
year's spasmodic cribbing had only managed to secure them a promotion
from the Second Form to the Third. But when the evening came they were
indeed great men, and ruled over a small dormitory that contained,
besides themselves, only four new boys who looked up to them as gods and
hung on their every word.

But very soon the wanderings of these two gentlemen ceased, and at the
sound of the House tutor's tread down the passage they fled very
ingloriously to their own abode. Mr Parkinson, the House tutor, was one
of the most popular masters in the school. He had only just missed his
blue at Oxford, and since he had gone down had devoted all his energies
to training on the junior members of the House at football and cricket.
He was in rather a hurry this particular evening, as he had to make out
the list of studies, but he shook hands with everyone, and asked all the
new boys their names before turning out the lights, with instructions
not to kick up too much row.

At last Gordon was at rest. For ten hours at least he would not have to
worry about anything. He lay back in bed contentedly and listened to the
conversation. As was natural, the talk was at first only about the
holidays, but it soon drifted round to school politics, and one Bradford
began to hold forth on the composition of the Fifteen, as if he was the
captain's bosom friend. To Gordon, of course, most of the names
mentioned signified nothing. He gathered that the great Lovelace was
going to be captain and was sure to have rows with Buller the games
master, but besides this he picked up very little. Gradually the
conversation turned on individuals, and especially on a certain
Meredith, who was apparently a double-first, with a reputation that did
not end on the cricket pitch.

"You know I think Meredith goes a bit too far at times," came a voice
from the middle of the room.

Bradford rose at once. "What the hell do you mean? Meredith go too far?
Why, he is a splendid wicket-keeper, and far and away the finest
half-back in the school. You must allow a good deal to a blood like
him."

"Oh, I know he is a magnificent athlete and all that, but don't you
think he does rather a lot of harm in the House?"

"Harm? Who to?"

"Well, I mean there's Davenham now and----"

"Davenham!" came the scornful retort. "What does it matter what happens
to Davenham? He's absolutely useless to the House, rotten at games and
spends his whole time reading about fossils. Who cares a curse about
Davenham!"

"Oh, I suppose you are right, but----"

"My dear ass, of course I am right. Meredith is a simply glorious
fellow. Do you remember the way he brought down Freeman in the Two Cock?
Why, the House simply couldn't get on without him."

To Gordon all this conveyed very little. He had no idea who Meredith or
Davenham were. The only thing he realised was that for those who wore a
blue and gold ribbon laws ceased to exist. It was apparently rather
advantageous to get into the Fifteen. He had not looked on athletics in
that light before. Obviously his preparatory school had failed
singularly to keep level with the times. He had always been told by the
masters there that games were only important for training the body. But
at Fernhurst they seemed the one thing that mattered. To the athlete all
things are forgiven. There was clearly a lot to learn.



CHAPTER II: FINDING HIS FEET


The new boy's first week at a Public School is probably the most
wretched he will ever pass in his life. It is not that he is bullied.
Boots are not shied at him when he says his prayers; he is not tossed in
a blanket; it is merely that he is utterly lonely, is in constant fear
of making mistakes, is never certain of what may happen next, and so
makes for himself troubles that do not exist. And when Gordon wrote
home to his people at the end of his second day it did not need a very
clever mother to read between the lines and see that her son was
hopelessly miserable.

His worries began at once. On the first day of term discipline is, of
course, very slack. There is only an hour's work, which is, for the most
part, spent in finding out what books are needed. There is no
preparation set for the evening, breakfast is at eight-thirty instead of
seven-forty-five, and it does not matter how late anyone comes in. And
so when, at eight o'clock, the School House butler, who had watched many
generations pass by with the same imperturbable smile, walked down the
dormitories ringing a horribly cracked bell, no one paid any attention.
There was tons of time. Ordinarily no one ever got up till the quarter,
and to-day--well, twenty past would be ample. A voice from the end of
the room muttered drowsily: "Damn that bell." But besides that nothing
happened. Gordon was fearfully perplexed. He had expected everyone to
leap out of bed, seize a towel and rush to the shower-bath, but no one
had moved. Could it be possible that they were still asleep and had not
heard the bell? It seemed incredible, but it might be so. And if it
were, ought he to wake them up? It seemed rather cheek for a new boy,
but then, supposing the whole dormitory were late.

Greatly daring, he stretched out a hand and touched the arm of the boy
sleeping next him. The individual in question merely turned over
subconsciously and said something fierce. Gordon relapsed into a state
of terror. During the next quarter of an hour he passed through all the
miseries of an unknown fear. Only twenty-four hours ago he had been at
breakfast with his father and mother in his home at Hampstead. It seemed
years ago. Here he was face to face with horrible, unexplained things.
The suspense grew unbearable. He was sure he heard someone moving next
door; the others were getting up; he would be late his first day. What a
start! But just as he was visioning the most dire punishments, James, an
insignificant person of one term's standing, slowly pushed back the
bed-clothes, picked up a towel and lethargically moved towards the door.
Gordon jumped up, happy at last, and made for the huge new bathroom. It
had an iron floor, sloped so as to allow water to drain off easily, and
contained six small baths and showers fixed above them. The room was
practically empty. He was glad of this; he did not want to have a shower
with a lot of people looking on. The water was very cold--he was used to
a tepid bath; but by the time he had begun to dry, the place was full of
boys all shouting at once. No one is more loud or insistent than he who
has just ceased to be labelled new. He likes everyone to know how
important he is, how free and how unfettered by rules, and the best way
to this end is to shout and curse everything. The room was filled with
shouts of "Good God! are we expected to get clean in babies' tubs?"
"What a fool the Chief is." "Oh, damn your eyes, that's my towel." "No,
there's yours, you blasted idiot." Gordon was immensely shocked at the
language. He had come from a preparatory school run by a master with
strong views on swearing, and for that matter on everything. He had been
kept thoroughly in order. He got out of the bathroom as quickly as
possible and made for his dormitory. It did not take long to dress.
There was indeed very little time, and as the half-hour struck, he was
carried down in the throng to the dining-hall.

Breakfast is always rather a scramble, and nowhere more so than at a
Public School. The usual Fernhurst breakfast lasted about ten minutes.
Hardly anyone spoke, only the ring of forks on plates was heard and an
occasional shout of "Tea" from the Sixth Form table. They alone could
shout at meals, the others had to catch the servant's eye. To-day,
however, there was a good deal of conversation. Those who had come by
the last train had not seen all their friends the night before. There
was much shaking of hands. In the middle a loud voice from the head of
the Sixth Form table shouted out: "Silence! I want to see all new boys
in my study at nine o'clock." It was Clarke, the head of the House, who
spoke. He was tall, with pince-nez, one of those brilliant scholars who
are too brilliant to get scholarships. He was a fanatic in many ways, a
militarist essentially, a firebrand always. There was bound to be
trouble during his reign. He could never let anything alone. He was a
great fighter.

Gordon looked up with immense awe. Clarke looked so powerful, so
tremendous; even Lovelace himself was not much greater. He wondered
vaguely what would be said to them.

And indeed Clarke was even more imposing in his own study. The back of
the room sloped down into a low alcove in which hung strange Egyptian
curtains. The walls were decorated with a few Pre-Raphaelite
photogravures. Behind the door was a pile of cases. Clarke sat with his
back to the window.

"Now you are all quite new to school life," he began, "entirely ignorant
of its perils and dangers, and you are now making the only beginning you
can ever make. You start with clean, fresh reputations. I don't know how
long you will remain so, but you must remember that you are members of
the finest house in Fernhurst. Last year we had the two finest athletes,
Wincheston and Lovelace, who played cricket for Leicestershire, and is
now captain of the House. We had also the two finest scholars, Scott and
Pembroke, both of whom won scholarships. Now we can't all be county
cricketers, we can't all win scholarships, but we can all work to one
end with an unfailing energy. You will find prefects here who will beat
you if you play the ass. Well, I don't mind ragging much and it is no
disgrace to be caned for that. But it is a disgrace to be beaten for
slacking either at games or work. It shows that you are an unworthy
member of the House. Now I want all of you to try. Some of you will
perhaps never rise above playing on House games, or get higher than the
Upper Fifth. But if you can manage to set an example of keenness you
will have proved yourselves worthy of the School House, which is beyond
doubt _the_ House at Fernhurst. That's all I have got to say."

That scene was in many ways the most vivid in Gordon's career. From that
moment he felt that he was no longer an individual, but a member of a
great community. And afterwards when old boys would run down Clarke, and
say how he had stirred up faction and rebellion, Gordon kept silent; he
knew that whatever mistakes the head of the House might have made, he
had the welfare of the House at heart and loved it with a blind,
unreasoning love that was completely misunderstood.

It is inevitable that a new boy's first few days should be largely taken
up in making mistakes, and though it is easy to laugh about them
afterwards, at the time they are very real miseries. At Fernhurst,
things are not made easy for the new boy. Gordon found himself placed in
the Upper Fourth, under Fleming, a benevolent despot who was a master of
sarcasm and was so delighted at making a brilliant attack on some
stammering idiot that he quite forgot to punish him. "Young man, young
man," he would say, "people who forget their books are a confounded
nuisance, and I don't want confounded nuisances with me." Gordon got on
with him very well on the whole, as he had a sense of humour and always
laughed at his master's jokes. But he only did Latin and English in the
Fourth room, for the whole school was split up into sets, regardless of
forms, for sharing such less arduous labours as science, maths, French
and Greek. So that Gordon found himself suddenly appointed to Mr
Williams' Greek set No. V. with no idea of where to go. After much
wandering, he eventually found the Sixth Form room. He entered; someone
outside had told him to go in there. A long row of giants in stick-up
collars confronted him. The Chief sat on a chair reading a lecture on
the Maccabees. All eyes seemed turned on him.

"Please, sir," he quavered out in trembling tones, "is this Mr Williams'
Greek set, middle school No. V?"

There was a roar of laughter. Gordon fled. After about five more
minutes' ineffectual searching he ran into a certain Robertson in the
cloisters. Now Robertson played back for the Fifteen.

"I say, are you one of the new boys for Williams' set?"

"Yes."

"Well, look here, he's setting us a paper, and I don't know much about
it, and I rather want to delay matters. So look here, hide yourself for
a few minutes. I am just going to find Meredith and have a chat."

For ten minutes Gordon wandered disconsolately about the courts. When at
last Robertson returned with his protégé the hour was well advanced, and
there would be no need for Robertson to have to waste his preparation
doing an imposition.

On another occasion one of the elder members of his form told him to go
to "Bogus" for French. Now "Bogus" was short for the Bogus officer, and
was the unkind appellation of one Rogers. Tall, ascetic and superior,
with the air of a great philosopher, he had, like Richard Feverel's
uncle, Adrian Harley, "attained that felicitous point of wisdom from
which one sees all mankind to be fools." He was one of the happy few who
are really content; for in the corps as Officer Commanding he could
indulge continuously in his favourite pastime of hearing his own voice,
and as a clerk in orders the pulpit presented admirable opportunities
for long talks that brooked no interruptions. In the common room his
prolix anecdotes were not encouraged. But in the pulpit there was no
gainsaying him. His dual personality embodied the spirit of "the Church
Militant," a situation the humour of which the School did not fail to
grasp. But of all this Gordon, of course, knew nothing. After a long
search for this eminent divine, in perfect innocence he went up to a
master he saw crossing the courts.

"Please, sir, can you tell me where Mr Bogus' class-room is?" He did not
understand till weeks afterwards why the master took such a long time to
answer, and seemed so hard put to it not to laugh.

The story provided amusement in the common room for many days. Rogers
was not popular.

It was in this atmosphere of utter loneliness and inability to do
anything right that Gordon's first week passed. Of the other new boys
none of them seemed to him very much in his line. There was Foster,
good-looking and attractive, but plausible and insincere. There was
Rudd, a scholar who had passed into the Fifth, spectacled, of sallow
appearance, and with a strange way of walking. Collins was not so bad,
but his mind ran on nothing but football and billiard championships. The
rest were nonentities, the set who drift through their six years, making
no mark, hurting no one, doing little good. Finally they pass out into
the world to swell the rout of civilised barbarians whom it "hurts to
think" and who write to the papers, talk a lot about nothing and then
die and are forgotten. The Public School system turns out many of these.
For it loves mediocrity, it likes to be accepted unquestioningly as was
the Old Testament. But times change. The Old Testament and the Public
School system are now both of them in the melting-pot of criticism.

For the most part Gordon kept to himself. No one took any notice of him,
for he did nothing worthy of notice. He had rather looked forward to his
first game of football, for he had been quite a decent half-back at his
preparatory school. He might perhaps do something brilliant. But for his
first two days he wasn't allowed even to play a game. With the other new
boys he shivered in the autumn wind while Meredith, who rather
surprisingly seemed quite an ordinary sort of person, instructed them in
how to pack down. They were then told to watch the Upper game and see
how football should be played. It was here that Gordon first saw Buller,
the games master. He was indeed a splendid person. He wore a
double-breasted coat, that on anyone else would have looked ridiculous,
and even so was strikingly original. He had the strong face of one who
had fought every inch of his way. It was a great sight to see "the
Bull," as he was called, take a game; he rushed up and down the field
cursing and swearing. His voice thundered over the ground. It was the
first game after the summer holidays, and everyone felt rather flabby.
At half-time the great man burst out: "I have played football for
twenty-five years, I coached Oxford teams and Gloucestershire teams, led
an English scrum, and for fifteen years I have taught footer here, but
never saw I such a display! Shirking, the whole lot of you! Get your
shoulders down and shove. Never saw anything like it. Awful!" The Bull
said this to every team at least three times every season, but he was
every bit as generous with his praise as with his blame when things went
well, and he was a great man, a personality. Even a desultory Pick-Up
woke into excitement when the shrill, piping voice of a full-back came
in with, "'The Bull's' coming." There was only one man in Fernhurst who
was not afraid of him, and that was Lovelace, who was indeed afraid of
nothing, and who towered over his contemporaries by the splendour of his
athletic achievements, and the strength of an all-mastering
personality.

On the next day Gordon had to watch another Upper game. This time "the
Bull" was more or less quiet. Lovelace was at the top of his form, and
Meredith twice cut through brilliantly and scored between the posts.
Then life seemed to Buller very good. After the game he rolled up to his
house perfectly satisfied, whistling to himself. It was not until the
Saturday that Gordon actually played in a game. He was originally
performing on the Pick-Up; but after a few minutes he was fetched to
fill a gap in a House game. He was shoved into the scrum, was perfectly
useless, and spent his whole time trying to escape notice. Only once he
got really near the ball. Just before half-time the ball was rolling
slowly towards him, the opposing full-back had failed to reach touch.
Gordon, steadying himself as at soccer, took a tremendous kick at the
ball, which screwed off his foot, and landed in the hands of the outside
three-quarter, who easily outpaced the defence and scored.

"You bloody little fool," said someone. "For God's sake, no soccer
tricks here."

Gordon did not attempt to repeat the performance. He was supremely
wretched, and merely longed for the day to end. No one understood him,
or even wanted to. His home became a very heaven to him during these
days.

But sooner or later pain grows into a custom. The agonies of Prometheus
and Ixion must after a little while have ceased to cause anything more
than boredom. As soon as the mind is accustomed to what is before it,
there is an end of grief. It is the series of unexpected blows that
hurts. And so, Gordon after his first week found that life was not so
hard after all. He knew where his various class-rooms were: his
time-table was complete; he had slipped into the routine, and found that
there was a good deal of merriment for anyone with a sense of humour.

Fleming was a constant source of amusement. One day Mansell, a member of
the School House Fifteen, had forgotten his book. The usual penalty for
forgetting a book was a hundred lines. Mansell had been posted on the
Lower ground. If he did well, he might be tried for the Second Fifteen.
The book must be got at all costs.

"Please, sir, may I go and get a handkerchief?"

"Yes, young man, and hurry up about it."

After five minutes Mansell returns, blowing his nose vigorously in his
silk handkerchief of many colours, for Mansell is by way of being a nut.
The book is under his coat. He sits down.

Fleming fixes him with a stony glare--a long pause.

"Mansell, take that book from under your coat."

Reluctantly the miscreant does so. The dream of a Second's cap vanishes.

"Conjurer!"

The roar of laughter was sufficient to make Fleming forget all about
impositions. But Mansell did not perform very well on the Lower ground,
and Gordon overheard Lovelace remarking to Meredith that Mansell was
really rather a come-down for a School House cap.

But, whatever his football performances, Mansell was a continual source
of laughter. He and Gordon were in the same Greek set and studied under
Mr Claremont, a dry humorist, who had adopted schoolmastering for want
of something better to do, had apparently regretted it afterwards, and
developed into a cynic.

Mansell was easily the most popular man and the worst scholar in the
set, in which there were nineteen in all. Each week Claremont read out
the order. Gordon was usually about half-way up. Mansell fluctuated; one
week he "bagged" the translation Clarke was using for scholarship work.
He was second that week. But Clarke discovered the theft. There was a
fall. Many names were read in the weekly order, but Mansell's was not of
them. At last Claremont reached him.

"Greek Prose, Mansell 19th; Greek Translation, Mansell 19th; Combined
Order, Mansell 19th." A roar of laughter. "Well, Mansell, I don't think
that a titter from your companions is a sufficient reward for a week's
bad work."

The immediate result of this was that Mansell, realising that without
some assistance, printed or otherwise, his chances of a good report were
small, got leave from Clarke to fetch Gordon from the day-room to his
study in hall to prepare the work together. Gordon at once thought
himself a tremendous blood. There were advantages, after all, in being
moderately clever.

About this time another incident helped to bring Gordon a little more
before the public eye. There had been a match in the afternoon _v._
Milton A. Lovelace, as happens to all athletes at times, had an off day.
He missed an easy drop, fumbled two passes, and when the School were
leading by one point just before time, failed to collar his man, and
Milton A won by two points. "The Bull" raged furiously. Lovelace took
hall that night. He sat at the top of the table in the day-room and
gazed about, seeking someone on whom to vent his wrath. There was a dead
silence. Gordon was writing hard at a Latin prose. He looked up for a
second while thinking of a word.

"Caruthers, are you working?" Lovelace snapped out.

"Yes."

"You liar, you were looking out of the window, weren't you?"

"Yes, but----"

"I'll teach you to tell lies to me. Come and see me at nine o'clock."

Very miserably Gordon continued his work. After about a quarter of an
hour:

"Caruthers, will you take six, or a hundred lines?"

Gordon thought it was not the thing to take lines:

"Six."

"Will you have it now or afterwards?"

"Now."

"Hunter, go and get a cane from my study."

Trembling with fear, Gordon heard Hunter's feet ring down the stone
passage, saw him running across to the studies by the old wall. There
was silence again; then the sound of feet; Hunter returned.

"Come out here, Caruthers."

It hurt tremendously; he went back wishing he had taken the hundred
lines. But the others thought it amazingly brave of him. Lovelace minor,
handsome, debonair, a swashbuckler in the teeth of authority, came up
afterwards and said:

"Damned plucky of you. My brother's a bit of an ass at times."

It was not really plucky, it was merely the fear of doing the wrong
thing. But the House thought that, after all, there might be something
in at least one of those wretched new kids. One or two people looked at
him almost with interest that night in hall.

That was Gordon's first step. Afterwards things were not so hard.
Mansell began to think him rather a sport, as well as an indispensable
aid to classical studies, and Mansell counted for something. Meredith
smiled at him one day.... A public School was not such a bad hole after
all. And his cup of happiness seemed almost running over when one
afternoon after a game of rugger he overheard Lovelace minor say to
Hunter:

"That kid Caruthers wasn't half bad."

For he saw that the sure way to popularity lay in success on the field;
and because it was the weak as the strong point of his character that he
longed with a wild longing for power and popularity, it was already his
ambition to be some day captain of the House, and to lead his side to
glorious victories.



CHAPTER III: THE NEW PHILOSOPHY


"Of course 'the Bull' may be a jolly fine fellow and all that, but he
does exceed the limit at times."

Lovelace minor was speaking; it was the evening after the Dulbridge
Match. The school had been beaten by twenty-seven points to three, by a
much faster and heavier side. Meredith had been ill and could not play.
Lovelace major had sprained his ankle in the first half, and though he
had gone on playing was very little use. The match had all along been a
foregone conclusion. But "the Bull" had lost his temper entirely.

Hunter, Mansell and Jeffries, a Colt, who ran a good chance of getting
his House cap the next term, were discussing the matter. Gordon, who had
come in to do Thucydides, was sitting in the background, a little shy
and very interested.

"Is it true," said Jeffries, "that your brother threatened to resign the
captaincy if he did not keep quiet?"

"Yes. By Jove, my brother let him have it. That's what 'the Bull' wants;
he wants a fellow who's not afraid of him to stand up against him.
Fernhurst has been run by him long enough. He is a splendid fellow; and
when he's sane I almost love him. But he has become an absolute tyrant.
Thank God, he can't ride roughshod over my brother."

Mansell here broke in. Mansell was rather fond of summing up.

"It's like this. 'The Bull's' a gorgeous fellow, he loves Fernhurst, he
wants to love everyone in it. But he does not understand our House. We
are not going to sweat ourselves to win some rotten Gym Cup or House
Fives; we haven't time for that. We are amateurs. We play the hardest
footer and the keenest cricket of all the houses, and that's where we
stop. He wants us to train every minute, go for runs in the afternoon,
do physical exercises before breakfast so as to become strong,
clean-living Englishmen, who love their bodies and have some respect for
their mind." (A roar of laughter. It was as though 'the Bull' were
speaking.) "Well, I don't care a damn myself for my body or mind. All I
know is that the House is going to get the Two Cock somehow, and that
for six weeks we'll train like Hades, and then, when we've got the cup,
we'll have a blind. We aren't pros who train the whole year round; we're
amateurs!"

And Mansell was perhaps not far wrong.

"I say, you know," says Hunter, who had a cheerful way of suddenly
flying off at a tangent, "talking of 'the Bull,' have you heard of the
row in his house?"

Intense enthusiasm. Buller's was supposed to be "above suspicion."

"Oh, well, old Bull came round the dormitories last night and heard
Peters and Fischer and some other lads talking the most arrant filth. He
gave them all six in pyjamas on the spot, and Fischer is not going to be
allowed to be house captain next year. Rather a jest, you know. Old Bull
thought because his house was always in wonderful training that the
spirit of innocence ruled over the place."

"Well, he must be an ass then," said Mansell. "Why, look at Richmore,
and Parry; and even old Johnson has little respect for a bourgeois
morality."

Mansell was rather pleased with the last phrase; he was not quite
certain what it meant. G.K. Chesterton used it somewhere, probably in
his apology for George IV. It sounded rather nice.

"Well, it's obvious that a blood must be a bit of a rip; and Buller's is
merely an asylum for bloods!"

This rather perplexed Gordon. He ventured a question rather timidly:
"But is it impossible for a blood to be a decent fellow?"

"Decent fellow?" cried Jeffries. "Who on earth has said they were
anything else? Johnson's a simply glorious man. Only a bit fast; and
that doesn't matter much."

In a farewell lecture, Gordon's preparatory school master had given him
to believe that it mattered a good deal, but he was doubtless
old-fashioned. Times were changed; Gordon had ceased to be shocked at
what he heard; he was learning what life was, and how strange and
beautiful and ugly it was.

As the winter term drew to a close, Gordon grew more and more sure of
himself. He had passed by nearly all the other new boys. Foster, it is
true, had got on well according to his lights, and was on more than
friendly terms with Evans, the school slow bowler. But he was not much
liked by his equals. Rudd was looked on quite rightly as an absolute
buffoon; Collins got on fairly well, but was generally admitted to be a
bit eccentric. Gordon was, without doubt, the pick of the crew. His
position in form was a great help. Mansell's friends thought him a
cheerful, amusing and respectable-looking person, and were quite pleased
to have him about the place. Next term he was going to have a study with
Jeffries. The Chief thought he had got on rather too quick. But he was
usually among the first three in his form, and there was nothing
definite to find fault with, and, after all, his friends were excellent
fellows. There was nothing against them. Jeffries was genially selfish,
always ready for a rag, a keen footballer, and had, like most other
Public School boys, adopted a convenient broadmindedness with regard to
cribbing and other matters.

"If the master is such an arrant ass as to let you crib, it is his own
lookout; and, after all, we take the sporting chance."

Lovelace minor was rather a different sort of person. Very excitable, he
despised and deceived most of the masters; among his friends he was
unimpeachably loyal. He loved games, but never took them sufficiently
seriously to please "the Bull." He played for his own pleasure, not "the
Bull's." He was a splendid companion.

Hunter was rather a nonentity; his chief attraction was that he usually
had the last bit of scandal at his finger-tips; he was safe to be
consulted on any point of school politics. It was his boast that he had
sufficient evidence to expel half the Fifteen and the whole Eleven.

At this time Gordon found school life inexpressibly joyful. There were
minor troubles, but they were few. The only thing that really worried
him was Corps Parade. This infliction occurred once every week, and for
two hours Gordon passed through hell. He was in a recruits' section
under a man from Rogers' house, who was a typical product of his house.
He was oily, yellow and unpleasant to look upon. He also loathed Gordon.
There was a feud between the men from Rogers' and the School House.

Rogers was the captain in command of the corps. To Gordon he seemed
exactly like what Cicero must have been, loud, contentious, smashing
down pasteboard castles with a terrific din. He was amazingly arrogant
and conceited. In the pulpit and on the parade ground he was in his
element. The School House had for years been notorious for their
slackness on parade. In drill and musketry competitions they had
invariably come out bottom, and Rogers hated them for it. It was indeed
a great sight to see the School House half company at work. Everyone was
fed to death, and took no pains to hide the fact. Once Rogers had said
to the House colour-sergeant:

"Phillips, form up your men facing right."

Phillips looked round at them, thought for a second or two and then
drawled: "Look here, you fellows, shove round there." And the subsequent
sarcastic comment was quite lost on him. He was a good forward, but not
too clever. He was proof against epigram.

It was truly a noble sight to see Lovelace minor come on parade. Every
week exactly two seconds late, in the dead silence that followed the
sergeant-major's thundered "Parade!" he would dash through the school
gate, puffing and blowing, his drum knocking against his equipment, his
hat crooked, half his buttons undone. He would barge through two
sections, rush to the School House half-company, bang his rifle on the
ground, and say to his companion in a stage whisper: "I wasn't noticed,
was I?"

But these were only incidents. As a whole everything connected with the
corps was "a hell upon earth." Field days consisted of a long march, a
sublime mix-up, a speech from Rogers, a bad tea, then a long march home.
No one knew what was happening; no one cared. It was a sheer waste of
time. Only Rogers really enjoyed himself.

Then suddenly it occurred to Clarke that such a state of affairs was a
disgrace to the House. He had just been made a colour-sergeant, and
determined to wake things up. He made a long speech to the House,
pointing out the necessity for National Service, the importance of
militarism, and its effect on citizenship. He finished by a patriotic
outburst, telling them that they were wearing the King's uniform, and
that it must be kept clean, with the brass badges polished. The House
was mildly interested; its attitude was summed up in Turner's remark:

"The King's uniform will have to go buttonless as far as I am concerned.
Damned if I'll waste twopence to buy a rotten bone button."

On the next parade, however, Clarke inspected the company. Half the
House had to call him the next morning, dressed properly, at seven
o'clock. That would mean getting up at six-thirty. General
consternation.

"It's a crying scandal," said Lovelace minor. "If I had not been
reported for slacking at French I'd jolly well go and complain to the
Chief. How can anyone play football without proper sleep?"

Gordon laughed from the depths of his arm-chair. There were advantages
in being a recruit, even if one was ordered about by a man in Rogers'
who didn't wash. Hunter and Jeffries raged furiously; they swore that
they would not turn up. "Who is Clarke, damn his eyes, to take on the
privileges of a brigadier-general? It's a House tradition that no one
tries at parade."

Overnight Hunter was very full of rebellion; but seven o'clock saw him
in shining brass, meekly standing before Clarke, who examined them from
his bed with an electric torch. But Jeffries cut; he was ever "agin the
government." He got six. His tunic was clean next week. The House
growled and cursed inwardly, but its appearance on parade was very
different. Clarke was a man.

There is nothing so self-satisfying as to watch trouble from a safe
distance. Gordon was thoroughly happy. Mansell cursed heavily every
Monday night before the Tuesday parade. Clarke became to the House what
Cromwell was to Ireland; even the feeble Davenham thought it was a bit
thick. But Gordon was a recruit, and such things did not worry him. Life
was just then amazingly exciting. He was developing into quite a useful
forward. Mansell said he was certain for a place in the House Thirds
side. He was high up in form, and there was a good chance of his getting
a prize, but what perhaps counted more than anything else was the fact
that he was getting a position in the House. Prefects had ceased to ask
him what his name was. He was no longer a nonentity; he was looked on as
a coming man.

As the term wore on, the thought of exams. brought to Gordon only a
feeling of excitement. There was little likelihood of disaster; there
was the certainty of a good struggle for the first place between himself
and one Walford, a dull though industrious outhouse individual. But to
some of his friends exams. seemed as the day of reckoning. Lovelace
minor was frankly at his wits' end. He had slacked most abominably the
whole term. He had prepared none of his books, and his next-door
neighbour had supplied him with all necessary information. Now the news
was about that IV. B was going to sit with the Sixth Form for exams.
Terror reigned. There could be no cribbing under the Chief's nose.
Jeffries was in the same plight; but he was a philosopher. "If I get
bottled in every paper," he said, "it will only mean about two hours'
work on each subject. But if I am going to know enough to avoid being
bottled, it will mean a good eight hours' work at each subject: six
hours wasted on each. In these times of bustle it can't be done.
Caruthers, pass me that red-backed novel on the second shelf!"

Lovelace, however, was perturbed, and set out to prepare himself for the
ordeal. But his was a temperament that forbade application on any
subject other than horse racing. Every night he paced up and down the
study passages getting hints first from one person then another, and
always staying for a talk. By the end of preparation the result was
always the same--nothing done; and he and Jeffries both spent the last
Saturday in exactly the same way.

But with Mansell it was different. If he got a promotion his pater had
promised him a motor bike. At first sight this seemed impossible. Hunter
in fact laid a hundred to one against his chances. But for once Mansell
really tried at something besides games. For two halls he worked solidly
from seven till ten, preparing small slips of paper that contained all
the notes he could find in Gordon's notebook, and that could fit
conveniently into the back of a watch. Everything was in his favour.
Claremont was taking exams. The first paper was Old Testament history.
Mansell looked at his watch repeatedly; but suddenly he came to an
unexpected question. He endeavoured to extract an answer from the man on
his right.

Claremont spotted him.

"Well, Mansell, if I ask you if you are cribbing, I know you will deny
it, and I don't want you to tell me a lie; but I must beg of you not to
talk quite so loudly."

Any ordinary master would have torn up the boy's paper. But Claremont
was getting old.

At any rate for the rest of the exams. Mansell relied entirely on his
notes. The Greek translation paper, however, was more than he could do.
Promotion did not count on a set subject, but only on English and Latin;
so Greek had gone by the board. After writing the most amazing nonsense
for two hours, Mansell decided that it was wiser not to enter into
competition at all with those low tricksters who had prepared their
work. He showed up no papers at all.

Next day Claremont corrected the papers.

"Well, Mansell, I can't find your paper anywhere."

"I showed it up, sir."

"Well, I am sure I don't know where it is. You had better go and find Mr
Douglas, and ask him if he knows anything about it."

Mr Douglas was the mathematical master, to whom all marks were sent. He
added them up, and made out the orders.

After an unnecessarily long interval Mansell returned.

"I am sorry, sir; Mr Douglas has not seen them."

"Well, I suppose it must be all my fault. I shall have to give you an
average on your papers, which, strange to say, have been, for you,
remarkably good."

Mansell was averaged sixth for the paper. A real good bluff gives more
pleasure than all the honest exercises of one's life put together.

There was laughter in No. 16 Study that evening. A few weeks ago Gordon
would have been horrified at such a thing; but now it seemed a splendid
jest. He would not have cribbed himself. He preferred to beat a man with
his own brains, though Mansell would have protested that it was a
greater effort to pit one's brains against a master long trained in
spotting tricks than against some dull-headed scholar. The Public School
system, at any rate, teaches its sons the art of framing very ingenious
theories with which to defend their faults; a negative virtue, perhaps,
but none the less an achievement.

The last days of term were now drawing in. The House supper was only a
few days off and the holidays very close. Everyone was glad on the whole
to have finished the Christmas term, which is invariably the worst of
the three. And this year it had not been improved by Clarke's military
activities and the feeling of unrest that overhung the doings of the
Fifteen, because of Lovelace major's never-ending broils with "the
Bull." Two strong men both wanted their own way. On the whole, honours
were even, though, if anything, slightly in Lovelace's favour, since he
had filled up the scrum with a School House forward and a member of
Benson's, a small and rather insignificant House, instead of giving the
colours to men in Buller's.

But next term there would be fewer rows. There would be house matches,
and each house captain would run things in his own house as he wished.
The school captain did little except post up which grounds each house
was to occupy. The School House always longed for the Easter term. It
was their chance of showing the rest of the school what they were made
of. As they were slightly bigger than any other house, they claimed the
honour of playing the three best of the outhouses in the great Three
Cock House Match for the Senior Challenge Cup. This year, with Lovelace
and Meredith, a School House victory was looked on as almost certain.
Besides this big event there were the Two Cock and Thirds House Match.
In the "Thirds" the School House under sixteen house side played against
the two best of the outhouses under sixteen sides, for the Thirds
Challenge Cup. And in the Two Cock, the second House Fifteen--that is,
the House Fifteen minus those with first and second Fifteen
colours--played the two best of the outhouse second Fifteens for the
Junior Challenge Cup. The results of these last two matches were very
much on the knees of the gods. The House stood a fair chance, but the
general opinion was that Buller's would win the Thirds; and Christy's, a
house that was full of average players who were too slack to get their
seconds, would pull off the Two Cock. At any rate, there would be no
lack of excitement. There was always far more keenness shown about house
matches than school matches, a fact which worried Buller immensely. He
thought everything should be secondary to the interests of Fernhurst.

On the last Saturday of the term there was the House Supper. It was a
noble affair. The bloods wore evening dress; even the untidiest junior
oiled his hair and put on a clean collar. At the Sixth Form table sat
the Chief, some guests, Lovelace, Clarke, and a certain Ferguson, who
edited _The Fernhurst School Magazine_, and was to propose the health of
the old boys, of whom about twenty had come down, several having helped
to defeat the school by twenty points to sixteen in the afternoon. Never
had so much food been seen before. Turner had boasted that he always
went into training a week before the event, so as to enjoy it more. But
the real triumph was the hot punch. As soon as dessert had begun the old
boys trooped out, and brought in a huge steaming bowl of punch, from
which they filled all the glasses. Gordon did not like it much. It
seemed very hot and strong. But everyone else seemed to. Jeffries got a
little excited.

Then speeches followed. The Chief proposed the fortune of the House,
Clarke answered him. There was the usual applause and clapping. But the
real event was Lovelace's speech. It had been a year of great success.
The Three Cock had been lost by only a very small margin. The Two Cock
had been won in a walk-over, and the Thirds by two points. The Senior
Cricket and the Sports Cup had also been won. It was very nearly a
record year. Lovelace was received with terrific applause; he
congratulated the House on its performance; he mentioned individual
names; each was the signal for a roar of cheering; and then, at the end,
he said:

"And now I have a message to the House from the old boys. Let us have
the Three Cock Cup back again on the School House sideboard. It is the
place where it should be, and that's the place where we are going to put
it! Gentlemen, The Three Cock!"

Amid a deafening noise the toast was drunk, and a voice from the back
yelled out: "Three cheers for Lovelace!" His health, too, was drunk, and
they sang _For he's a Jolly Good Fellow_.

After this all else seemed tame. Ferguson made a speech that was meant
to be very funny, but rather missed fire. He had read _Dorian Gray_ the
whole of the evening before, underlining appropriate aphorisms. But to
the average boy Oscar Wilde is (rather luckily perhaps) a little too
advanced. The evening finished with _Auld Lang Syne_. Everyone stood on
the table and roared himself hoarse. The score in damage was twenty
plates broken beyond repair, sixteen punch glasses in fragments,
fourteen cracked plates, two broken gas mantles. When the revellers had
departed the hall looked rather gloomy, as probably Nero's did when his
guests fled after the murder of Britannicus.

Next morning there was early service for communicants. But the School
House was entirely pagan. Hardly a man went. On Sunday there was a great
feed in Study 16. Somehow or other ten people got packed into as many
square feet of room. Gordon was there; and Mansell, of course; Collins
came to act as general clown; Fitzroy, a small friend of Jeffries, sat
in a far corner looking rather uncomfortable. Spence, Carey and Tiddy
made up the number; the last were quite the ordinary Public School type,
their conversation ran entirely on games, scandal and the work they had
not done. Lovelace was mildly bored.

"It's pretty fair rot, you know. Here have I been fair sweating away at
the exams, every minute of my time, and Jeffries, who has not done a
stroke, is above me."

Jeffries was bottom but one.

"Oh, rotten luck," said Mansell. "You should do like me. Old fool
Claremont said I had done damned well!"

"He hardly put it that way," came from Gordon; "but I believe Mansell
has managed more or less to deceive the examiners."

"Oh, I say, that's a bit thick, you know," said Mansell. "Oh, damn, who
is that at the door?"

There was a feeble knock. "Come in!" shouted at least six voices
simultaneously.

Davenham came in looking rather frightened.

"I'm sorry.... Is Caruthers in here?"

"Yes, young fellow, he is."

"Oh, Caruthers, Meredith wants you!"

"Damn him," said Gordon. "What a nuisance these prefects are."

Very unwillingly he got up and strolled upstairs.

He was away rather a long time. After twenty minutes' absence he
returned rather moodily.

"Hullo, at last; you've been the hell of a long time," said Hunter.
"What did he want?"

"Oh, nothing; only something about my boxing subscription."

"Well, he took long enough about it, I must say. Was that all?"

"Of course. Cake, please, Fitzroy!"

The subject was dropped.

But just before chapel Jeffries ran into Gordon in the cloister.

"Look here, Caruthers, what did Meredith really want you for? I swear I
won't tell anyone."

"Oh, well, I don't mind you knowing.... You know what Meredith is,
well--I mean--oh, you know, the usual stuff. He wanted me to meet him
out for a walk to-morrow. I told him in polite language to go to the
'devil.'"

"Good Lord, did you really? But why? If Meredith gets fed up with you he
could give you the hell of a time."

"Oh, I know he could, but he wouldn't over a thing like that. Damn it
all, the man is a gentleman."

"Of course he is, but all the same he is a blood, and it pays to keep on
good terms with them."

"Oh, I don't know; it's risky--and well, I think the whole idea is
damned silly nonsense."

Jeffries looked at him rather curiously.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose that is how the small boy always looks at
it."

It was only for an hour or so, however, that Gordon let this affair
worry him. The holidays were only forty-eight hours off and he was
longing to hear the results of the exams., and to know whether he had a
prize.

Prize-giving was always held at five o'clock on the last Monday. And the
afternoon dragged by very slowly. Mansell assumed a cheerful
indifference. He thought his motor bike fairly certain. Rumour had it
there were going to be at least twelve promotions into the Lower Fifth.
Jeffries and Lovelace had also nothing to worry about; there was little
doubt as to their positions. Hunter specialised in chemistry, and had
done no examination papers. But for Gordon the suspense was intolerable.
He could find nothing to do; he climbed up the Abbey tower, and wrote
his name on the big hand of the clock; he roped up his playbox, tipped
the school porter; and still there was an hour and a half to put in.
Disconsolately he wandered down town. He strolled into Gisson's, the
school book-seller's: it contained nothing but the Home University
Library series and numerous Everymans. It was just like his first day
over again. But at last five o'clock came, and he sat with his four
friends at the back of the big schoolroom. He grew more and more tired
of hearing the lists of the Second and Third Forms read out. What
interest did he take in the doings of Pappenheim and Guttridge tertius?
IV. A was reached at length. The list was read from the bottom.

Not placed--Hunter.

Slowly the names were read out; the single figures were now reached:

Mansell--term's work, eighteen. Exams., one. Combined order, four.

This difference of position caused a titter to run round among those of
the School House who knew the cause of it. The third name and then the
second was reached:

Caruthers--Term's work, one. Exams., three. Combined order, one.

Term's Prize--Caruthers. Exams.--Mansell.

The latter's performance was the signal for an uproarious outburst of
applause, in which laughter played a large part. There was still more
merriment when it was discovered that he had got as a prize _Sartor
Resartus_. As he crudely put it: "What the bloody hell does it mean?"
Gordon got the _Indian Mutiny_, by Malleson. Both books now repose, as
do most prizes, in the owners' book-cases, unread.

"Congrats, Mansell, old fellow," yelled Lovelace minor, as the school
poured out at the end of the prize-giving. "Glorious! What a School
House triumph."

"Yes, you know," said Mansell. "But it doesn't seem quite fair, and I am
damned if I want this book. It looks the most utter rot. I say, shall I
give it to that little kid in Buller's, I forget his name, who was
second? He looks a bit upset. Shall I, I say?"

"Don't be a silly fool, Mansell," said Lovelace major, who happened to
overhear the conversation. "You've just got the only prize you're ever
likely to get for work; stick on to it."

The rest of the day was pure, unalloyed joy to Gordon. He rushed off
after tea to wire the news home; then he sat in the gallery and listened
to the concert. He had expected to enjoy it rather; but the seats were
uncomfortable, the music too classical, and he soon stopped paying any
attention to the choir, and began a long argument with Collins as to the
composition of the Two Cock scrum.

The next morning as the train steamed out of Fernhurst, and he lay back
in the carriage smoking a cigarette, outwardly with the air of a
connoisseur, inwardly with the timid nervousness of a novice, he
reflected that, in spite of the Rev. Rogers, school was a pretty decent
sort of place.



CHAPTER IV: NEW FACES


"I say, it _is_ true; Lovelace major has left."

"Good Lord, no; is it?"

"He's not on the House list?"

"I heard he'd passed into the army at last."

"I wonder who he was sitting next."

"And we shall have that silly ass Armour captain of the House."

"Ye gods!"

A small crowd had gathered in front of the studies on the first night of
the Easter term. Consternation reigned. The almost impossible had
happened. Lovelace major had passed into Sandhurst at his fifth attempt,
and Armour would take his place as house captain. It was a disaster.
Armour was doubtless a most worthy fellow, a thoroughly honest,
hard-working forward. But he had no personality. When he passed by, fags
did not suddenly stop talking, as they did when Clarke or Meredith
rolled past them. The term before, he had not even been a house prefect.
The Three Cock, which had once seemed such a certainty, now became a
forlorn hope.

"It's rotten," said Lovelace minor that night in the dormitory. "My
brother didn't think he had the very ghost of a chance of passing. He'd
mucked it up four times running, only the silly ass had done both the
unseens with "the Bull" the week before, and he was too damned slack to
alter them, and write them down wrong. He always was an ass, my
brother."

Everyone was sorry. Even "the Bull" regarded him with a sort of
indulgent sentimentality. He never saw very much good in a School House
captain as long as he was there; but as soon as he left, all his faults
were forgotten and virtues that he had never possessed were flung at him
in profusion. The result was that "the Bull" said to the School House
captain of each generation: "I have had more trouble with you than any
Fernhurst boy I have ever met. You can't see beyond the length of your
own dining-hall. See big. See the importance of Fernhurst, and the
insignificance of yourself."

But no one was more sorry than Armour. He did not want responsibility;
he had not sought for it. He wished to have fought in the School House
battles as a private, not as an officer. He loved the House, and longed
for its success, and trembled to think that he might ruin its chances by
a weak and vacillating captaincy. Moreover, he felt that he had no one
to back him up. Meredith, Robey and Simonds, the other members of the
First Fifteen in the House, were all grousing and wondering how large a
score the outhouses would run up in the Three Cock. No one placed any
confidence in his abilities. He was entirely alone.

The next day was pouring wet; the ground was under water. Most house
captains would have sent their houses for a run. But Armour wanted to
make his start as early as possible. He couldn't bear to delay. That
afternoon the probable Thirds side played against the rest of the House,
with the exception of the Second colours. Armour had never felt so
nervous before; it was actually the first time he had refereed on a
game. Jeffries was captain of the Thirds, and kicked off. It was, of
course, a scrappy game. On such a day good football was impossible. The
outsides hardly touched the ball once. But the forwards, covered in mud
from head to foot, had their full share of work. Jeffries was
ubiquitous; he led the "grovel" (as the scrum was called at Fernhurst),
and kept it together. Gordon had very little chance of distinguishing
himself; but he did one or two dribbles, and managed to collar Mansell
the only time he looked like getting away. Lovelace minor, who played
fly-half, had nothing to do except stop forward rushes, was kicked all
over his body, got very cold and never had a chance once. He was
utterly miserable the whole hour. All this was in favour of Armour. He
knew nothing about three-quarter work, but he had played forward ever
since he had gone to the Fernhurst preparatory at ten years of age, and
could always spot the worker and the slacker, which Lovelace major never
could. On the whole, taking a house game was not so terrifying after
all; by half-time he had forgotten his nervousness in his excitement at
watching how his side was going to shape.

"You know, I don't think Armour so rotten as people said he would be,"
said Gordon, as they came up after the game. "I thought he was all
right."

"Oh yes, he's not so bad; but he does not seem much when you shove him
next to Lovelace major."

"Well, you know," said Jeffries, "he does know something about forward
play, which I am damned if Lovelace did."

"Perhaps so; but all the same Lovelace was the man to win matches."
Mansell was an outside, and loved dash and brilliance, but the forwards
were not sorry to have someone in command who understood them. Armour
had begun well.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are still people who will maintain that the ideal schoolboy in
school hours thinks only about Vergil and Sophocles, and in the field
concentrates entirely on drop kicks and yorkers. But that boy does not
exist; and in the Easter term it is impossible to think of anything but
house matches. Those who were in the power of some form martinet had a
terrible time this term. But Gordon and Mansell found themselves safely
at rest in Claremont's form and Greek set, and made up their minds just
to stay there and do only enough work to avoid being bottled.

For the Lower Fifth was certainly the refuge of many weather-beaten
mariners. Pat Johnstone had laboriously worked up from the bottom form,
led on only by the hope that one day he would reach V. B, and there
repose at the back of the room, living his last terms in peace. Ruddock
had once set out with high hopes of reaching the Sixth; his first term
he had won a Divinity prize in the Shell. But under Claremont he had
discovered the truth, learnt long ago in the land of Lotus Eaters, "that
slumber is more sweet than toil!" The back benches of that room were
strewn with shattered hopes. Small intelligent scholars came up and
passed by on their way to Balliol Scholarships; but the faces at the
back of the room remained terribly somnolent and happy. A certain
Banbury had been there for three years and had earned the nickname of
"old Father Time," and Mansell, too, swore he would enrol himself with
the Lost Legion, while even Gordon said that nothing would shift him
from there for at least a year.

Claremont had many strange ideas, the most striking of which was the
belief that boys felt a passionate love for poetry. The average boy has
probably read all the poetry he will ever read terms before he ever
reaches the Fifth Form. By the time he is in Shell he has learnt to
appreciate Kipling, the more choice bits of _Don Juan_ and a few
plain-spoken passages in Shakespeare. If English Literature were taught
differently, if he were led by stages from Macaulay to Scott, from Byron
to Rossetti, he might perhaps appreciate the splendid heritage of song,
but as it is, swung straight from _If_ to the _Ode to the Nightingale_
he finds the "shy beauty" of Keats most unutterable nonsense. Claremont,
however, thought otherwise, and ran his form accordingly. In repetition
this was especially noticeable. Kennedy, a small boy with glasses, who
was always word-perfect, would nervously mumble through Henry V's speech
(they always learnt Shakespeare) in an accurate but totally uninspired
way. Mansell would stand at the back of the form and blunder out blank
verse, much of which was his own, and little of which was Shakespeare,
but which certainly sounded most impressive.

"Well, Kennedy," Claremont would say, "you certainly know your words
very well, but I can't bear the way you say them. Five out of twenty.
Mansell, you evidently have made little attempt to learn your repetition
at all, but I love your fervour. One so rarely finds anyone really
affected by the passion of poetry. Fifteen out of twenty."

During his two years in the Lower Fifth Mansell never once spent more
than five minutes learning his "rep," yet on no occasion did he get less
than twelve out of twenty. A bare outline was required, a loud voice
supplied the rest.

In this form it was that Gordon first began to crib. He did not do it
to get marks. He merely wished to avoid being "bottled." Some
headmasters, and the writers to _The Boy's Own Paper_, draw lurid
pictures of the bully who by cribbing steals the prize from the poor
innocent who looks up every word in a big Liddell and Scott; but such
people don't exist. No one ever cribbed in order to get a prize: they
crib from mere slackness. Mansell's exam. prize in IV. A is about the
only instance of a prize won by cribbing. Besides, cribbing is an art.

Ruddock, for instance, when he used to go on to translate, was
accustomed to take up his Vergil in one hand and his Bohn in the other.

"What is that other book, Ruddock?" Claremont asked once.

"Some notes, sir," was the perfectly truthful answer.

Ruddock was, moreover, an altruist; he always worked for the good of his
fellow-men. One day, when Mansell was bungling most abominably with his
Euripides, he flung his Bohn along the desk, Mansell picked it up,
propped it in front of him and read it off. Claremont never noticed.
This was the start of a great system of combination. Everyone at the
beginning of the term paid twopence to the general account with which
Ruddock bought some _Short Steps to Accurate Translations_. As each
person went on to translate, the book was passed to him and he read
straight out of it. The translating was, in consequence, always of a
remarkably high standard. Claremont never understood why examinations
always proved the signal for a general collapse. History, however, was a
subject that had long been a worry to the form. Dates are irrevocable
facts and cannot be altered, they must be learnt. At one time, when
Claremont said, "Shut your book. I will ask a few questions," everyone
shut their Latin grammars loudly and kept their history books open; but
this was rather too obvious a ruse; Claremont began to spot it.
Something had to be done. It would be an insult to expect any member of
the form to prepare a lesson. It was Gordon who finally devised a plan.

"Please, sir," he said one day, "don't you think we should find history
much more interesting if we could bring in maps."

"Well, perhaps it would," said Claremont sleepily. "I am sure the form
is very much indebted to you for your kind thought. Anyone who wants to,
may bring in a map."

Next day everyone had found a huge atlas which he propped up on the
desk; and which completely hid everything except the student's actual
head. There was now no fear of an open book being spotted, it was so
very simple to shut it when Claremont began to walk about, and besides
... it made the lesson so much more interesting.

And so Gordon and Mansell were able to discuss football the whole of
evening hall, never do a stroke of work, and yet get quite a respectable
half-term report.

The interest in the Thirds was now becoming intense. As was expected,
Buller's easily beat all the outhouses, with Claremont's house as
runners-up. Claremont's house had once been the great athletic house,
but when a house master takes but little interest in a house's
performances, that house is apt to get stale, and soon Claremont's
became a name for mediocrity. As a house it was like V. B, a happy land
where no one worried about anything, and it was quite safe to smoke in
the studies on a Sunday afternoon. A side made up of two houses that had
never played together before was bound to lack the combination of a side
that had played together for several weeks. But the School House was
always playing against superior weight and strength, and more than once
had found itself unable to sustain their efforts, and after leading up
to half-time went clean to pieces in the last ten minutes. It is pretty
hard to hold a "grovel" several stones heavier for over an hour, and
this year even Armour was a little doubtful about the lightness of his
side. To Gordon and Jeffries, of course, defeat seemed impossible. Last
year Jeffries had played in a winning side and Gordon had yet to see the
House lose a match. But Mansell smiled sadly; he had played in a good
many losing sides. Gordon dreamed football night and day. He saw himself
securing wonderful last-minute tries, and bringing off amazing collars
when all seemed lost. But all his hopes were doomed to disappointment.
Two days before the game he slipped coming downstairs, fell with his
wrist under him, and with his arm in splints and sling had to watch from
the touch-line an outhouse victory of ten points to nothing. The usual
thing happened--the House was just not strong enough. Jeffries played a
great game, and fought an uphill fight splendidly; Lovelace only missed
a drop goal by inches; Fletcher, an undisciplined forward, did great
damage till warned by the referee. But weight told, and during the whole
of the last half the House were penned in their twenty-five, while the
school got over twice. Very miserably the House sat down to tea that
evening. It added insult to injury when an impertinent fag from Buller's
walked in in the middle and demanded the cup. Armour managed to keep his
temper, but that fag did not forget for weeks the booting Gordon gave
him the next day. Still it was a poor revenge for a lost cup.

Whatever little chance there had ever been of Gordon getting a place in
the Two Cock was, of course, quite destroyed by his accident. The doctor
said he ought not to play again for at least three weeks. And so it was
that, as far as football was concerned, Gordon found himself rather out
of it. All his friends were in the thick of everything. Mansell was
captain of the Two Cock, Jeffries was leading the scrum, Hunter was
being tried as scrum half, and Lovelace was in training as a reserve. He
alone was doing nothing. For a few days the afternoons seemed unbearably
long. But Gordon had a remarkable gift for adapting himself to
circumstances. And he had very little difficulty in striking up new
acquaintances. So far, he had had very little to do with those outside
his actual set; with the majority of the House he was hardly on speaking
terms, and of Archie Fletcher he knew little except the name.

Archie Fletcher was a great person; "great" in fact was the only
adjective that really fitted him. He had only two real objects in life,
one was to get his House cap, the other was to enjoy himself. And his
love of pleasure usually took the form of ragging masters. Ragging with
him did not consist in mere spasmodic episodes of bravado which usually
ended in a beating. He had reduced it to a science. It was to him the
supreme art. At present he was suffering from a kick on the knee which
he had received in the Thirds, and he and Gordon found themselves
constantly thrown together.

Archie (no one ever called him anything else), was a splendid companion.
He had an enormous repertoire of anecdotes which he was never tired of
telling, and every one finished in exactly the same way: "Believe me,
Caruthers, some rag." Oh, a great man, forsooth, was Archie! He had
cynically examined every master with whom he had anything to do, picked
him to pieces, found out his faults, and then played on his weaknesses.
Sometimes, however, he went a little too far. On one occasion he was
doing chemistry with a certain Jenks, a very fiery little man, who
really believed in the educational value of "stinks." So did Archie; it
gave him scope to exercise his genius for playing the fool. But this day
he overstepped the bounds. In the distance, he saw Blake, his pet
aversion, carefully working out an experiment. A piece of glass tubing
was at hand; Jenks was not looking; Archie fixed the tube to the
waterspout, turned the tap; a cascade of H_{2}O rose in the air and fell
on Blake's apparatus; there was a crash of falling glass. Jenks spun
round.

"Oh, is that you, Fletcher, you stupid fellow? Come over here. I shall
have to beat you. Now then, where's my cane gone! Oh, then I shall have
to use some rubber tubing--stoop down, stoop down!"

Laboriously Archie bent down; Jenks bent a piece of india-rubber tubing
double--its length was hardly a foot--and gave Archie a feeble blow. It
could not possibly have hurt him. But the victim leapt in the air,
clutching the seat of his trousers.

"Oh!" he screamed. "Oh, sir, oh, sir! You have hurt me, sir. You are so
strong, sir."

"Oh, then you are coward, too, are you?" said the delighted Jenks.
"Stoop down again; stoop down!"

The form rocked with laughter.

Archie received four strokes in all, and after each he went through the
same performance. Jenks thought himself a second Hercules; he repeated
the story in the common room. Archie repeated it also, in the studies:
"Believe me, you fellows, some rag!"

A great man, and after Gordon's own heart!

On a bleak, rainy afternoon Gordon and Fletcher watched the overwhelming
defeat of the House in the Two Cock. The score was over thirty points;
Mansell played only moderately; Jeffries was off his game. A gloom
settled down over the House, everyone became peevish and discontented.
It was said that the great days of House footer were over. To lose both
the Thirds and the Two Cock was a disgrace. No one expected anything but
a rout in the Three Cock. There were bets in the day-room as to whether
the score would be under fifty. Interest centred entirely on who would
get their House caps. With Lovelace away, the three-quarter line would
be innocuous: the forwards always had been weak. The House were bad
losers, they had grown accustomed to victories.



CHAPTER V: EMERGING


"Jeffries was pretty hot stuff to-day, wasn't he?"

"Good Lord! yes. If he plays half as well as that in the Three Cock
he'll get his House cap."

It was just after tea. Mansell was lying back in an easy-chair with his
feet on the table; he was dead tired after a strenuous game. Gordon was
sitting on the table. Hunter reclined in the window seat.

"Where is he, by the way?" said Gordon. "I didn't see him in to tea."

"Oh, I believe someone asked him out. Isn't he rather a pal of the
Jacobs in Cheap Street?"

"I heard that there was a bit of a row on," said Hunter. "I couldn't
quite make out what about.... Oh, by Jove, that's him."

Jeffries' voice was heard down the passage: "Mansell."

A voice answered him: "Here, No. 34."

Jeffries was heard running upstairs; he entered looking very dejected.

"Hullo! Cheer up!" shouted Mansell. "I shouldn't have thought you could
have run like that after this afternoon's game. Where've you been?"

"I say ... I'm in the deuce of a row."

There was a shriek of laughter. Jeffries was always in a row; and he
always exaggerated its importance.

"Don't laugh. It's no damned joke. I've got bunked."

Silence suddenly fell on the group.

"But ... what the hell have you been doing?"

"Chief's found out all about me and Fitzroy, and I've got to go!"

"But I never thought there was really anything in that," said Gordon. "I
thought----"

"Oh, well, there was. I know I'm an awful swine and all that----Oh, it's
pretty damnable; and the Three Cock, too! I believe I should have got my
House cap!... I wasn't so dusty to-day--and I heard Armour say, as he
came off the field----Damn, what the bloody hell does it matter what
Armour said? It's over now. I just got across for a minute to see you
men.... I said I wanted a book.... Lord, I can't believe it...."

When he stopped speaking there was again a dead silence. None of the
three had been brought face to face with such a tragedy before. Never,
Gordon thought, had the Greek idea of Nemesis seemed so strong.

Hunter broke the silence.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I shall go home, and then, I suppose, I shall have to go
to France or Germany, or perhaps some crammer. I don't know or care ...
it's bound to be pretty rotten...."

He half smiled.

"My God, and it's damned unfair," Mansell said suddenly. "There are
jolly few of us here any better than you, and look at the bloods, every
one of them as fast as the devil, and you have to go just because----Oh,
it's damned unfair."

Then Jeffries' wild anger, the anger that had made him so brilliant an
athlete, burst out: "Unfair? Yes, that's the right word; it is unfair.
Who made me what I am but Fernhurst? Two years ago I came here as
innocent as Caruthers there; never knew anything. Fernhurst taught me
everything; Fernhurst made me worship games, and think that they alone
mattered, and everything else could go to the deuce. I heard men say
about bloods whose lives were an open scandal, 'Oh, it's all right,
they can play football.' I thought it was all right too. Fernhurst made
me think it was. And now Fernhurst, that has made me what I am, turns
round and says, 'You are not fit to be a member of this great school!'
and I have to go. Oh, it's fair, isn't it?"

He dropped exhausted into a chair. After a pause he went on:

"Oh, well, it's no use grousing. I suppose if one hits length balls on
the middle stump over square leg's head one must run the risk of being
bowled; and I didn't believe in sticking in and doing nothing. 'Get on
or get out,' and, well, I've got out." He laughed rather hysterically.

Again silence.

Slowly Jeffries got up.

"Well, good-bye, you men." He shook hands. As he opened the door he
paused for a second, laughed to himself: "Oh, it's funny, bloody funny,"
he murmured. "Not fit for Fernhurst.... Bloody funny." He laughed again,
bitterly. The door closed slowly.

Jeffries' footsteps could be heard on the stairs. They grew fainter; the
door leading to the Chief's side of the House slammed. Down the study
passage a gramophone struck up _Florrie was a Flapper_.

In Study 34 there was an awful stillness.

That evening on the way down to supper Gordon overheard Armour say to
Meredith:

"What a fool that man Jeffries is, getting bunked, and mucking up the
grovel. Damned ass, the man is."

Meredith agreed.

Gordon didn't care very much just now about the result of a House match.
He had lost a friend. Armour had lost a cog in a machine.

       *       *       *       *       *

As was expected, the Three Cock proved a terribly one-sided game. The
House played pluckily, and for the first half kept the score down to
eight points; but during the last twenty minutes it was quite impossible
to keep out the strong outhouse combination. The side became
demoralised, and went absolutely to pieces. Armour did not give a single
House cap.

After the Three Cock there was a period of four weeks during which the
best athletes trained for the sports, while the rest of the school
played hockey. It was generally considered a sort of holiday after the
stress of house matches. Usually it served its purpose well, but for the
welfare of the House this year it was utterly disastrous. The whole
house was in a highly strung, discontented state; it had nothing to work
for; it had only failures to look back upon. The result was a general
opposition to authority. For a week or so there was a continuous row
going on in the studies. Window-frames were broken; chairs were smashed;
nearly every day one or other member of the House was hauled before the
Chief, for trouble of some sort. But things did not reach a real head
till one night in hall, just before Palm Sunday. There was a lecture for
the Sixth Form; Armour was taking hall; and the only prefect in the
studies was Sandham, who had a headache and had got leave off the
lecture. It did not take long for the good news to spread round the
studies that only "the Cockroach" was about.

The first sign of trouble was a continual sound of opening doors. Archie
was rushing round, stirring up strife; then there came a sound of many
voices from the entrance of the studies, where were the fire hose and
the gas meter. Suddenly the gas was turned out throughout the whole
building, and pandemonium broke out.

It would be impossible to describe the tumult made by a whole house that
was inspired by only one idea: the desire to make a noise. The voice of
Sandham rose in a high-pitched wail over and again above the uproar; but
it was pitch dark, he could see none of the offenders. Then all at once
there was peace again, the lights went up, and everyone was quietly
working in his study. It had been admirably worked out. Archie was
"some" organiser.

For the time being the matter ended; but in a day or two rumours of the
rebellion had reached Clarke. Strong steps had to be taken; and Clarke
was not the man to shirk his duty.

That evening after prayers he got up and addressed the House.

"I have been told that two nights ago, when I was absent, there was a
most unseemly uproar in the studies. I am not going into details; you
all know quite well what I mean. I want anyone who assisted in the
disturbance to stand up."

There was not a move. The idea that the Public School boy's code of
honour forces him to own up at once is entirely erroneous. Boys only own
up when they are bound to be found out; they are not quixotic.

"Well, then, as no one has spoken, I shall have to take forcible
measures. Everyone above IV. A (for the Lower School did their
preparation in the day-room) will do me a hundred lines every day till
the end of the term. Thank you."

That night there was loud cursing. Clarke had hardly a supporter, the
other prefects, with the exception of Ferguson, who did not count for
much in the way of things, agreed with Meredith, who said:

"If the Cockroach can't keep order, how can Clarke expect there should
be absolute quiet? It's the Chief's fault for making such prefects.
Damned silly, I call it."

The term did not end without a further row. There had been from time
immemorial a system by which corps clothes were common property.
Everyone flung them in the middle of the room on Tuesday after parade;
the matron sorted them out after a fashion; but most people on the next
Tuesday afternoon found themselves with two tunics and no trousers, or
two hats and only one puttee. But no one cared. The person who had two
tunics flung one in the middle of the floor, and then went in search of
some spare trousers. Everyone was clothed somehow in the end. There was
always enough clothes to go round. There was bound to be at least ten
people who had got leave off. It was a convenient socialism.

But one day FitzMorris turned up on parade in a pair of footer shorts, a
straw hat, and a First Eleven blazer. He was a bit of a nut, and finding
his clothes gone, went on strangely garbed, merely out of curiosity to
see what would happen. A good deal did happen.

As soon as the corps was dismissed there was a clothes inspection. And
the garments of FitzMorris were found distributed on various bodies.
Clarke again addressed the House. Anyone in future discovered wearing
anyone else's clothes would be severely dealt with. But the House was
not to be outdone. Every single name was erased from every single piece
of clothing: identification was impossible. FitzMorris turned up at the
next parade with one puttee missing, and a tunic that could not meet
across his chest. There was another inspection, but this time it
revealed nothing. Everyone swore that he was wearing his own clothes;
there was nothing to prove that he was not. For the time Clarke was
discomfited.

FitzMorris set out on his Easter holidays contented with himself and the
world, in the firm belief that he had thoroughly squashed that blighter
Clarke. The head of the House returned to his lonely home on the moors,
very thoughtful--the next term would be his last.

On the first Sunday of the summer term the Chief preached a sermon the
effect of which Gordon never forgot. He was speaking on the subject of
memory and remorse. "It may be in a few months," he said, "it may be not
for three or four years; but at any rate before very long, you will each
one of you have to stand on the threshold of life, and looking back you
will have to decide whether you have made the best of your Fernhurst
days. For a few moments I ask you to imagine that it is your last day at
school. How will it feel if you have to look back and think only of
shattered hopes, of bright unfulfilled promises? Your last day is bound
to be one of infinite pathos. But to the pathos of human sorrow there is
no need to add the pathos of failure. Oh, I know you are many of you
saying to yourselves: 'There is heaps of time. We'll enjoy ourselves
while we have the chance. It is not for so very long!' No, you are right
there: it is not for so very long; it is only a few hours before you
will have to weigh in the balance the good and the bad you have done
during your Fernhurst days. For some of you it will be in a few weeks;
but for the youngest of you it cannot be more than a very few years. Let
me beg each of you ..." The sermon followed on traditional lines.

Almost subconsciously Gordon rose with the others to sing: _Lord, behold
us with Thy Blessing_.... What would it feel like to him if this were
his last Sunday, and he had to own that his school career were a
failure? He sat quite quiet in his study thinking for a long time
afterwards. He had a study alone this term.

In the big study that it has ever been the privilege of the head of the
House to own, Clarke also sat very silent. He was nerving himself for a
great struggle.

       *       *       *       *       *

To the average individual the summer term is anything but the heaven it
is usually imagined to be. The footer man hates it; the fag has to field
all day on a house game and always goes in last; there is early school;
in some houses there are no hot baths. On the first day the studies are
loud with murmurs of:

"Oh! this rotten summer term."

"No spare time and cricket."

"Awful!"

For Fernhurst was primarily a footer school. Buller had captained
England and had infused much of his own enthusiasm into his Fifteens;
but the cricket coach, a Somerset professional, lacked "the Bull's"
personality and force, and so for the last few years the doings of the
Eleven had been slight and unmeritable. Even Lovelace major had been
unable to carry a whole side on his shoulders. As soon as he was out the
school ceased to take any interest in the game. Fernhurst batting was of
the stolid, lifeless type, and showed an almost mechanical subservience
to the bowling.

But for Gordon this term was sheer joy. He loved cricket
passionately--last season at his preparatory school he had headed the
batting averages, and kept wicket with a certain measure of success. As
a bat he was reckless in the extreme; time after time he flung away his
wicket, trying to cut straight balls past point; he was the despair of
anyone who tried to coach him; but he managed to get runs.

For cricket the School House was divided into A-K and L-Z, according to
which division the names of the boys fell into. Meredith was captain of
the House and of L-Z, while FitzMorris captained A-K. For the first half
of the term there were Junior House Single-Innings matches played in the
American method, and afterwards came the Two-Innings Senior matches on
the knock-out system. A-K Junior this year had quite a decent side.
Foster was not at all a bad slow bowler, and was known to have made
runs. Collins had a useful but unorthodox shot which he applied to every
ball, no matter where it pitched, and which landed the ball either over
shortslip's head or over the long-on boundary. In the nets it was a
hideous performance, but in Junior House matches, where runs are the one
consideration it was extremely useful. A certain Betteridge captained
the side, not because of any personal attainments, but because he was on
the V. A table, and had played in Junior House matches with consistent
results for three years. He went in tenth and sometimes bowled.

These matches began at once, as Stewart, the captain of the Eleven, was
anxious to spot useful men for the Colts, the under sixteen side, who
wore white caps with a blue dragon worked on them. And so on the second
Saturday of the term A-K drew Buller's in the first round. Before the
game FitzMorris had the whole side in his study to fix the positions in
the field. Some of the side had played little serious cricket before.
Brown, in fact, asked if he might field middle and leg. But at last they
were placed more or less to their own satisfaction, and FitzMorris gave
them a short "jaw" on keenness. Cricket was about the one thing he
really cared for; as a chemistry specialist he spent most of his day
adoze in the laboratory. It was only in the cricket field that he really
woke up.

With great solemnity Betteridge walked forward to toss with Felsted, the
Buller's captain. A few seconds later he returned to announce that
Buller's had won the toss and put them in. The captain of a Junior House
side is always very fond of putting the other side in first. P.F. Warner
would demand rain overnight, a drying ground, a fast wind and a baking
sun before he would dare do such a thing. But Felsted was made of
sterner stuff.

Gordon was sent in first with Collins. The idea was to try and knock the
bowlers off their length early. Gordon was very nervous. "The Bull" was
umpire at one end and FitzMorris at the other. Meredith had strolled
over to watch, as L-Z had drawn a bye. Mansell was in the Pavilion
eating an ice. All eyes seemed on him. He had made Collins take the
first ball. The start was worthy of the best School House traditions.
The first ball was well outside the off-stump; it landed in the National
School grounds that ran alongside of the school field. A howl of
untuneful applause went up. This was the cricket anyone could
appreciate, and this was the cricket that was always seen on a School
House game. Its only drawback was that could not last. Collins made a
few more daring strokes. In the second over he made a superb drive over
shortslip's head to the boundary, and his next shot nearly ended
FitzMorris' somnolent existence. It was great while it lasted, but, like
all great things, it came to an end. He gave the simplest of chances to
cover point, and Buller's rarely missed their catches.

It was so with nearly all the other members of the side. Three or four
terrific hits and then back under the trees again. Gordon alone seemed
at all comfortable. Either the novelty of the surroundings (it was only
his second innings at Fernhurst), or else the presence of "the Bull,"
quieted his customary recklessness. At any rate, he attempted no
leg-glides on the off-stump, and in consequence found little difficulty
in staying in. The boundaries, as was natural on a side ground, were
quite close. Runs came quite easily. During the interval after Foster's
dismissal "the Bull" walked across to him:

"How old are you, Caruthers?"

"Thirteen and a half, sir."

"Oh, good thing to come young. I did myself. Keep that left foot well
across and you'll stop in all day. Well done. Stick to it."

Gordon was amazingly bucked up. He had always heard "the Bull" was
anti-School House, and here he was encouraging one of his enemies. What
rot fellows did talk. Splendid man "the Bull"! He would tell Mansell so
that night.

And his opinion was even more strengthened when, after he had been clean
bowled for forty-three without a chance, "the Bull" stopped him on the
way out and said:

"Well done, Caruthers! Plucky knock. Go and have a tea at the tuck-shop,
and put it down to my account."

The School House innings closed for one hundred and forty-eight.
"Nothing like big enough," said Foster.

FitzMorris overheard him.

"Rot! Absolute rot! If you go on the field in that spirit you won't get
a single man out. Go in and win."

And a very fine fight the House put up. Foster bowled splendidly,
Betteridge was fast asleep at point and brought off a marvellous
one-handed catch, while Gordon stumped Felsted in his third over. After
an hour's play seven men were out for about ninety. The scorers were at
variance, so the exact score could not be discovered. There seemed a
reasonable chance of winning. And to his dying day Gordon will maintain
that they would have won but for that silly ass of an umpire,
FitzMorris. Bridges, the Buller's wicket-keep, was run out by yards;
there was no doubt about it. Everyone saw it. But long hours at the
laboratory had made it very hard for FitzMorris to concentrate his brain
on anything for a long time; he was happily dreaming, let us hope, of
carbon bisulphate, when the roar, "How's that?" woke him up. He had to
give the man "not out"; there was nothing else to do. Twenty minutes
later, with a scandalous scythe-stroke, Bridges made the winning hit.

"Never mind, your men put up a good fight; the luck was all on our
side," said "the Bull" to Caruthers. "Let's see, it's Sunday to-morrow,
isn't it? Well, on Monday, then, come round to the nets; you want to
practise getting that left foot across. Look here, just get your bat and
I'll toss you up one or two now at the nets!"

That night "the Bull," talking over the game with his side in the
dormitories, said: "That Caruthers, you know, he's a good man; sort of
fellow we want in the school. Can fight an uphill game. Got grit. He'll
make a lot of runs for the school some day."

On Monday Gordon saw his name down for nets with the Colts Eleven. Life
was good just then. If only Jeffries were there too....



CHAPTER VI: CLARKE


"Ferguson, the House is getting jolly slack; something's got to be
done."

Ferguson sat up in his chair. Clarke had been quiet nearly the whole of
hall; there was obviously something up.

"Oh, I don't know. Why, only a quarter of an hour ago I came across
Collins and Brown playing stump cricket in the cloisters instead of
studying Thucydides. That's what I call keenness."

"What did you say to them?"

"Oh, I've forgotten now, but it was something rather brilliant. I know
it was quite lost on them. The Shell can't appreciate epigram. They
ought to read more Wilde. Great book _Intentions_. Ever read it, Clarke?

"Oh, confound your Wildes and Shaws; that's just what I object to. Here
are these kids, who ought to be working, simply wasting their time,
thinking of nothing but games. Why, I was up in the House tutor's room
last night and was glancing down the list of form orders. Over half the
House was in double figures."

"But, my good man, why worry? As long as the lads keep quiet in hall,
and leave us in peace, what does it matter? Peace at any price, that's
what I say; we get so little of it in this world, let us hang on to the
little we have got."

"But look what a name the House will get."

"The House will get much the same reputation in the school as England
has in Europe. The English as a whole are pleasure-loving and slack.
They worship games; and, after all, the Englishman is a jolly sight
better fellow than the average German or Frenchman."

"Yes, of course he's a better fellow, but the rotten thing is that he
might be a much better fellow still. If as a country we had only
ourselves to think about, let us put up a god of sport. But we have not.
We have to compete with the other nations of the world. And late cuts
are precious little use in commerce. This athleticism is ruining the
country. At any rate, I am not going to have it in the House. In hall
they've got to work; and if their places in form aren't better next week
there's going to be trouble."

"Yes there'll most certainly be trouble. I can't think why you won't
leave well alone. Lord Henry Wootton used to say----"

But Clarke was paying no attention.

That evening he got up after prayers to address the House.

"Will nothing stop this fellow's love of oratory?" murmured Betteridge.

"I have to speak to the House on a subject which I consider important,"
began Clarke. ("Which probably means that it's most damnable nonsense,"
whispered Mansell.) "The position of the members of the House in form
order is not at all creditable. In future every week the senior member
of each form will bring me a list with the places of each School House
member of the form on it. I intend to deal severely with anyone I find
consistently low. I hope, however, that I shall not have need to. This
is the best house socially and athletically; there is no reason why we
should not be the best house at work too."

"As I prophesied," said Mansell, "most damnable nonsense!"

On the Second and Third Forms this speech had a considerable effect. For
the first time in his life Cockburn did some work, and at the end of the
week he was able to announce that he had gone up two places--from
seventeenth to fifteenth. There were seventeen in the form.

The Shell and the Lower Fourth were, of course, too old to consider the
possibility of actually working. It was a preposterous idea. Something
had to be done, however, so Collins bought excellent translations of the
works of Vergil and Xenophon. A vote of thanks proposed by Foster and
seconded by Brown was very properly carried _nem. con._

But in V. B and IV. A there were some strong, rebellious spirits who
would not bow down under any tyranny. In Study No. 1, at the end of the
passage on the lower landing, Mansell addressed a meeting of delegates
with great fervour.

"From time immemorial," he thundered out, "it has been the privilege of
the members of this House" (he had been reading _John Bull_ the day
before) "to enjoy themselves, to work if they wanted to, to smoke if
they wanted to, to do any damned thing they wanted to. The only thing
they'd got to do was to play like hell in the Easter term, and here's
that ---- Clarke trying to make us do work, and, what is more, to work
for Claremont! Gentlemen, let us stand by our traditions." (Mr Bottomley
is useful at times.)

"That's all very jolly," said the practical Farrow, "but what are you
doing?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter what we do, as long as we stand up for our
rights. Who ever heard of School House men working?"

"Now look here, my good fellows," said the ingenious Archie, "it's quite
simple, if you will only do as I tell you. Clarke told us to bring him a
form list; the obvious thing to do is not to bring one at all."

"But, you silly ass, the fellow who ought to have brought it will get
into the very Hades of a row."

"Exactly. But who is the responsible person? Clarke said the senior man.
Well, now, in IV. A I am, as far as work is concerned, the senior man in
the form. But Hasel has been in the form a term longer than me, while
Farrow, a most arrant idiot, who has only just reached the form, has
been in the House a year longer than either of us. There is no senior
man. We have all excellent claims to the position, but we waive them in
favour of our inferiors."

Archie was at once acclaimed as the Napoleon of deceit. That week Clarke
found no form order either from IV. A or V.B. After prayers that evening
he asked to see all those in IV. A and V.B.

When the conspirators arrived at his study Clarke found that everything
had been elaborately prepared. There was not a single hitch in the
argument. No one was at fault. There had been a general
misunderstanding. They were, of course, very sorry. Clarke listened in
silence.

"Well, I'm sorry this has happened. But when I say that I want a thing
done, I expect it to be done. None of you are to blame particularly; but
you are all equally guilty. I shall be forced to cane the lot of you."

There was a gasp. They had known Clarke was a strong man, but they had
hardly expected this. Mansell was indignant.

"But look here, Clarke, you can't beat me, I'm a House cap."

"Can't I?"

"It has been a House tradition for years that a House cap can't be
beaten."

"I am sorry, Mansell, but I have little respect for traditions. Will you
all wait for me in the Sixth Form room?"

"All right, I shall go to the Chief then."

"I don't think you will, Mansell."

The Chief was not very fond of receiving complaints about his House
prefects.

It was, of course, obvious that Clarke, when he had started on a job
like this, had to carry it through. If he had gone back, his position
would have been impossible; but there could be no doubt that it was a
disastrous campaign as far as the unity of the House was concerned. At
once the House was divided into sides, and nearly the whole of the Sixth
Form was against Clarke.

"It's not the duty of the head of the House to see how people are
working. That is a House master's job," pointed out FitzMorris. "All
Clarke has got to do is to see that the kids don't rag in hall, and at
other times more or less behave themselves."

The House was in a state of open rebellion.

And the worst of it was that none of the other prefects made any attempt
to keep order. Now there was a rule that in hall only three people might
be allowed in one study, the idea being that, if more got in, work would
be bound to change into conversation. One evening, however, a huge crowd
slowly congregated in Mansell's study. Lovelace dropped in to borrow a
book, and stayed. Hunter and Gordon came for a chat, and stayed too.
Archie Fletcher had, as was usual with him, done all his preparation in
half-an-hour, and was in search of something to do. Betteridge heard a
noise outside, walked in, and stopped to give his opinion on the chances
of A-K beating L-Z that week. In a few minutes the conversation got
rather heated. The noise could be heard all down the passage.

Meredith came down to see what was going on.

"Ah, 'some' party! Well, Mansell, got over your beating yet?"

There was subdued laughter.

"I say, Meredith, have A-K the slightest chance of beating us on
Thursday?" Lovelace was captain of L-Z Junior, and had laid rather
heavily on a victory.

"Of course not, my good man, I'm going to umpire."

This time the laughter was not subdued.

In his retreat at the far end of the studies Clarke heard it. Down the
passage he thundered, knocked at the door, and came in.

"What's the meaning of this? You know quite well that not more than
three are allowed in here at one time. Come to my study, the lot of
you."

All this time Meredith was being jammed behind the door.

"When you have quite finished, Clarke," he said.

"I am sorry, Meredith. Are you responsible for this?"

"In a way, yes. I was rather afraid that the House was getting slack
about their work. A very bad thing for a house, Clarke! So I took this
opportunity of holding a little viva voce examination. We were studying
'The Sermon on the Mount,' a singularly beautiful and impressive
passage, Clarke. Have you read it?"

Clarke had read it that day as the lesson in chapel. He had also read it
rather badly, having a cold in his head.

"You seem to have rather a large class, Meredith," he said
sarcastically.

"Yes; like our good Lord, I have beaten the by-ways and the hedges, and
I am almost afraid I shall also have to beat Mansell. He has singularly
failed to appreciate the full meaning of that passage about 'humility.'"

Clarke saw he was beaten, and turned away. As he walked down the passage
he heard a roar of laughter coming from Study No. 1.

The story was all round the House in half-an-hour, and on his way down
to prayers Clarke heard FitzMorris say before a whole crowd:

"You are a great fellow, Meredith. That's the way to keep these upstarts
in order."

That night there was merriment in the games study, and Ferguson advised
Clarke to let the matter drop.

"After all, you know, it's not your business."

And perhaps Clarke realised that Ferguson was for once right. But he had
to go on; it was very hard, though. He had been quite popular before he
was head of the House. He wished he had left a year ago. For it is hard
to be hated where one loves. And Clarke, well as he loved Fernhurst,
loved the House a hundred times more.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well played, Caruthers; jolly good knock."

"Well done, Caruthers!"

Lovelace and Mansell banged excitedly into Gordon's study the evening
after the Colts match _v._ Murchester. Gordon had made thirty-seven on a
wet wicket, and a defeat by over a hundred runs was no fault of his. He
had gone in first wicket down, and stayed till the close.

"It was splendid! You ought to be a cert. for your Colts' cap. 'The
Bull' was fearfully bucked."

"Oh, I don't know; it was not so very much." In his heart of hearts
Gordon was pretty certain he would get his cap; but it would never do to
show what he thought.

"Oh, rot, my good man," burst out Lovelace. "You didn't give a chance
after the first over. And, by Jove, that was a bit of luck then."

"Yes, you know, I have a good deal of luck one way and another. I
haven't got in a single row yet; and I am always being missed."

"And some fellows have no luck at all. Now Foster was batting
beautifully before he was run out; never saw such a scandalous mix-up.
All the other man's fault. He bowled well, too. I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if he didn't get his Colts' cap. I know 'the Bull' likes him."

"Do you think so?" said Gordon. He did not know why, but he rather hoped
Foster would not get his cap. He himself would be captain of A-K Junior
next year. It would be better if he was obviously senior to Foster. He
was going to be the match-winning factor; and, so far as seniority goes,
there is not much to choose between men who get their colours on the
same day.

"Of course he won't if you don't," Mansell said, "but I think he's
worth it. I say, let's have a feed to-night. There's just time before
hall to order some stuff. Lovelace, rush off to the tuck-shop, and put
it down to my account."

Gordon found it impossible to work during hall; he fidgeted nervously.
He felt as he had felt on the last day of his first term before
prize-giving. He knew if he was going to get his Colts' cap he would get
it early that night. Stewart always gave colours during first hall. He
sat and waited nervously; work became quite impossible. He looked
through _The Daily Telegraph_ and flung it aside; then picked up _The
London Mail_; that was rather more in his line.

There was a sound of talking down the passage. He heard Clarke's voice
saying:

"Yes, down there, third study down, No. 16."

A second later there was a knock on the door. He managed to gulp out:
"Come in."

"Gratters on your Colts' cap, Caruthers. Well played!"

Stewart shook hands with him. The next minute Gordon heard him walking
to the school notice-board in the cloister. He was pinning up the
notice.

Gordon sat quite still; his happiness was too great....

No one is allowed to walk about in the studies before eight dining-hall.
For a quarter of an hour there was silence in the passage.

Eight struck; there was an opening of doors.

A few minutes later Hunter dashed in.

"Well done, Caruthers. Hooray!"

"Well done, Caruthers!" "Good old A-K!" "I am so glad!" Everyone seemed
pleased.

Just before prayers, as he sat at the top of the day-room table,
FitzMorris came over to him. "Jolly good, Caruthers. Well done." His cup
was full.

Foster did not get his cap....

The next day as Gordon was walking across the courts in break "the Bull"
came up to him.

"Gratters, Caruthers; wasn't your fault you lost. I like a man who can
fight uphill. You have got the grit--well done, lad."

"And yet," said Gordon to Mansell, as they passed under the school
gate, "you say that man cares only for his house. Why, he only loves his
house because it's a part of Fernhurst; and Fernhurst is the passion of
his life!"



CHAPTER VII: WHEN ONE IS IN ROME ...


Generalisations are always apt to be misleading, but there was surely no
truer one ever spoken than the old proverb: "When one is in Rome, one
does as Rome does!" Parsons and godmothers will, of course, protest
that, if you found yourselves among a crowd of robbers and drunkards,
you would not copy _them_! And yet it is precisely what the average
individual would do. When a boy leaves his preparatory school he has a
conscience; he would not tell lies; he would be scrupulously honest in
form; he would not borrow things he never meant to return; he would say
nothing he would be ashamed of his mother or sister overhearing.

But before this same innocent has been at school two terms he has learnt
that everything except money is public property. The name in a book or
on a hockey stick means nothing. Someone once said to Collins:

"I say, I want to write here, are those your books?"

"No, they are the books I use," was the laconic answer.

The code of a Public School boy's honour is very elastic. Masters are
regarded as common enemies; and it is never necessary to tell them the
truth. Expediency is the golden rule in all relations with the common
room. And after a very few weeks even Congreve would have had to own
that the timid new boy could spin quite as broad a yarn as he. The
parents do not realise this. It is just as well. It is a stage in the
development of youth. Everyone must pass through it. Yet sometimes it
leads to quite a lot of misunderstanding.

There were one or two incidents during this summer term that stood out
very clearly in Gordon's memory as proofs of the way masters may fail to
realise the boy's point of view.

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

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

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

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

"No, sir."

Jenks was rather fond of asking such leading questions.

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

"Fletcher, did you copy off Caruthers?"

"No, sir."

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

"No, sir."

How insistent the ass was getting.

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

"No, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does the old idiot want?"

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

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

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

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

About two minutes later Ferguson burst out:

"Look, sir, here they are!"

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

"Yes, sir. I thought we had."

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

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

They each got a Georgic....

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, _Quantum mutatus ab illo_," sighed Gordon.

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

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

Betteridge smiled rather sadly; he was not an athlete.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    In Memoriam
    MALEVUS SCHOLARUM
    In hadibus requiescat
    Quod non sine ignominia militavit

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

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

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

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

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

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



BOOK II: THE TANGLED SKEIN

    "Et je m'en vais
    Au vent mauvais
      Qui m'emporte
    Deça delà
    Pareil à la
        Feuille morte."

    PAUL VERLAINE.



CHAPTER I: QUANTUM MUTATUS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "In amber dreams of amorous despair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Archie at once loosed a tremendous kick at his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you?" said Hunter drily.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment the Abbey sounded half-past eight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

The person asked never has.

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

No blood is ever known to have prepared anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

The Chief rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tester looked round carefully, and then began anxiously:

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

The oath was taken.

"Well, it's us!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ferguson was, like the Boy Scout, always prepared.

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

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

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

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

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

This seemed a sound piece of reasoning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How many have you got down?"

"Oh, about fifteen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes, sir. I didn't mean----"

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

"What did 'the Bull' want, Caruthers?" Lovelace asked as Gordon walked
into the changing-room.

"Oh, nothing much. He didn't like me calling his fellows 'swine.'"

"But why the devil not? They are swine, aren't they?"

"Of course they are; but you can hardly expect 'the Bull' to realise
it."

"No, perhaps not; but, my God, they are the last thing in swine, those
Hazlitts and their crowd."

The House supper this year was not much, compared with the one of the
year before. Simonds was not an R.D. Lovelace, and Ferguson again spoke
miles above his audience. However, he was a sport, and let them do as
they liked; so they drank his health and sang: _He's a Jolly Good
Fellow!_ Several old boys came down, FitzMorris with an eyeglass and a
wonderful tie; Sandham, as usual, quite insignificant; Armour wearing
the blue waistcoat of a Wadham drinking club. Meredith had been
expected, but at the last moment he had found his debts so much in
excess of a very generous allowance that he would have to retrench a
little. It was a pity; but in the Bullingdon living is not cheap and
Meredith was a great blood.

The prize-giving this term afforded little comfort to Gordon; he was
easily bottom of V.A. Rather a collapse, but still one has to keep up
with things. It does not do to lose sight of the really important issues
of life, and Gordon had certainly been a social success. He travelled up
to London with Ferguson and Tester, and felt no small part of a giant
when Collins entered their carriage, suddenly saw Ferguson, and with
inaudible apologies vanished quickly down the corridor. Olympus was not
so very far off.



CHAPTER II: HEALTHY PHILISTINISM


During the Christmas holidays there appeared in a certain periodical one
of the usual attacks on the Public School system. It repeated all the
old arguments about keeping abreast of the times, and doing more modern
languages and less classics. The writer had nothing new to say, and,
like most other such attacks, his jeremiad was in an hour or two
forgotten. But at Fernhurst it did have some effect, for it gave Henry
Trundle the idea of forming a special class for French enthusiasts.
Henry Trundle was one of the French masters. He was entirely English,
had won his Blue for golf at Oxford, and had got a Double First. He also
was quite incapable of teaching anything. His form made no pretence of
keeping order; the noise that proceeded from his class-room could be
heard anywhere within a radius of a hundred yards. And yet he was not a
bad fellow; he was a good husband, and his children were very fond of
him. His domestic virtues, however, were sadly lost on Fernhurst, who
looked on him as a general buffoon, a hopeless ass. His class-room was
considered a sort of Y.M.C.A. entertainment hall, where there was
singing and dancing, and a mild check on excessive rioting.

At the beginning of the new term the Chief announced that in the upper
school one hour every day would be devoted to the study of either
French, maths or Latin. Each boy would choose his subject. Mr Reddon
would superintend the maths, Mr Trundle the French; for Latin each boy
would go to his own form master. To the hard-working, who had prizes
before their eyes, this scheme presented few attractions; as scholars it
would not be to their advantage to miss any classical hours, and French
was useless in scholarships. Macdonald, when he took down the names of
those who were to do Latin, found all those in front staying with him,
and all those behind going elsewhere. Macdonald laughed up his sleeve.

Indeed Trundle's class-room was filled with the most arrant collection
of frauds that have ever sat together this side of the Inferno. It was
largely a School House gathering. Lovelace was there; Hunter, Mansell,
Gordon, Archie and Collins. Christy's house supplied Dyke, a fine
footballer and a splendid ragger; Claremont's sent two typical dormice
in Forbes and Scobie; Buller's provided no one. Briault hailed from
Rogers. It was his boast that he could imitate any kind of animal from a
dog to a hyena. Benson, the only member of Abercrombie's, was entirely
insignificant, and actually did some work for the first two lessons. But
it was impossible to work long in such surroundings; and tales of the
extra French set are still told in whispers, after lights out, in the
upper dormitories.

The opening was sensational. No sooner had Trundle taken his seat than
Dyke leapt to his feet, jumped on the desk, jumped off it into the vast
paper basket, upset that, charged up to Trundle, shook him by the hand,
and began to pour out words: "My dear sir, how are you? How is Mrs
Trundle, and the little Trundles? Have you had a pleasant Christmas? I
have, sir. This, sir, is your extra French set. The French set--Mr
Trundle; Mr Trundle--the French set." Amid a beating of desks Dyke
returned to his seat. Trundle was used to this. But he had rather hoped
his new set would be composed for the most part of honest young
scholars. It was a disappointment; still, he had grown used to it. Life
had not been too kind to him.

"Now, let me see," he began, "who's the senior man here?"

Immediately everyone except Benson stood up. "I am, sir."

"But you can't all be the senior."

"Yes, sir; we are," was the unanimous answer.

"You see, sir," Gordon explained, "I am the cleverest and should be the
senior, but Mansell there, that dolt with the tie-pin, has been longer
in the school, and he's got his Seconds, and rather fancies himself.
Dyke has taken longer to reach IV. A than anyone else in the school's
history, and thinks that a sufficient claim to be senior. Lovelace, oh,
well, he's--well, I don't know what he is. Lovelace, you swine, what are
you?"

"Confound you, man!" shouted the enraged three-quarter. "Who the
hell----"

"Lovelace," broke in Trundle, "I think you may keep your reflections on
the future life till afterwards. We will sit in alphabetical order."

It is incredible how long it takes for ten boys to change their places.
It was a long process. Books fell to the right and to the left. There
were murmurs of "Damn you, man, that's my grammar!" or "Confound you,
Benson!" "Where the hell is my dictionary?" Twice Benson had been sent
flying into the waste-paper basket; three times had Dyke driven a
compass into the backside of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To
crown everything, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight.
Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under Trundle's desk;
Gordon endeavoured to get through a window that was hardly a foot
square. Macdonald's class-room was just the other side of the V. A
green; he chuckled to himself. "I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I
think we shall have to put him on to construe when he returns. If he
goes to music-hall shows in school time he must pay for it, you know."

There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder rang the noise
of the French students. A question had arisen as to what book they
should read that term. Everyone was shouting the name of his favourite
author. "Let's do _The Little Thing_," yelled Dyke. "No; de Maupassant,"
shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: "I saw one of his books in a
shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot stuff." Then louder again:
"Let's have de Maupassant." "No; _The Black Tulip_," Lovelace implored,
and went on in a stage whisper: "Now don't be silly fools, I have got a
crib of this. Have some sense." "You don't imagine we're going to
prepare the stuff, do you?" was Hunter's retort. Above the uproar
Forbes' voice drawled: "I say, if there's a French translation of _Five
Nights_, let's read that. I know the book pretty well by heart."

It was ultimately decided to read _six contes_ by François Coppée; but
by the time the decision had been reached, the hour had been exhausted.
Rather sadly Trundle watched the set pour out into the cloister,
shouting and laughing. Even masters have souls. Boys don't realise this.

Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. Sometimes
Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was singing: _Meet me under the
Roses_, while Gordon was giving a lively if inaccurate translation.

"Fletcher, stop that singing!"

"Mayn't I sing, sir?"

"Of course not. This is a class-room."

"Is it, sir? I thought it was a place of amusement."

"Fifty lines, Fletcher."

"But, sir, it is, you know----"

"One hundred lines, Fletcher."

"Really, sir----"

"One hundred and fifty lines, Fletcher."

Fletcher collapsed. Next morning a magnificent blue envelope, sealed at
every corner, arrived at Mr Trundle's house. It contained a vast
quantity of blank paper.

"But, sir, I really thought I put in the lines. Hunter, you swine, that
is your fault. Sir, I believe Hunter stole them. He had a big imposition
for the Chief. You dirty dog, Hunter. May I kick him, sir?"

"No; sit down, Fletcher."

The lines were never done.

One day Collins was put on to construe. Of course he had made no attempt
to prepare it. This was at once evident.

"Collins, have you prepared this?"

"No, sir."

"But why not?"

Collins had seen _Charley's Aunt_ in the holidays. "Ah, why?" was his
laconic answer.

Trundle foamed with wrath. He snatched a cane from under his desk and
advanced on Collins. The prospective victim leapt back and pointed at
him with theatrical calm: "Look, he is coming at me with cane in hand.
Ha! he comes! he comes! see how he comes."

Trundle launched a fierce blow at Collins, and only narrowly missed
Benson's eyes. Collins delivered a short lecture on the danger of losing
one's temper. Trundle returned to his desk.

As the term went on the ragging became more elaborate. At first the set
was content with giving a sort of low comedian, knockabout performance.
But they soon wearied of such things. After all, they were real
artistes. And Archie Fletcher could not bear being ordinary. But still
there was a good deal of sport to be got out of quite common place
manoeuvres. The introduction of electric snuff, for instance, may not
be very original; but it was remarkably successful.

Trundle had a habit of leaving his mark-book in his desk, and Lovelace
had a key that fitted it. The rest was simple. During evening hall
Hunter and Lovelace got leave to fetch a book from their class-room.
There was no one about. In five minutes Trundle's mark-book was filled
with snuff. Next morning the set assembled. Forbes was asleep, Benson
was furtively looking up a word in his dictionary, the School House
contingent was uncommonly quiet.

"Well," said Trundle, "who shall we start off with this morning? Let me
see, ah!" he opened his mark-book.

The roar of laughter was heard the other side of the court. For a full
three minutes Trundle was utterly, gorgeously prostrate with coughing
and sneezing.

Mansell was very sympathetic.

"Have you a cold, sir? I hope it's nothing serious, sir. I find the east
wind a little trying myself. Do you ever use Fletcher's cough lozenges?
Very efficacious, sir," he babbled on.

At last Trundle recovered his wind if not his temper. He glowered at the
form.

"Fletcher, translate, please."

Fletcher began. But he did not get very far. Hunter let loose another
wave of snuff. The whole form was now coughing and sneezing certainly
considerably more than was necessary.

"Next boy who sneezes I shall give a hundred lines to, and report him to
the Headmaster."

Temporary peace ensued. It is not pleasant to be sent up to the Chief;
and weak masters have not the slightest scruple in doing so. The strong
men need not report. But a man like Archie could not be kept in order
long. He gave vent to a most unpleasant snort.

"Fletcher, if you do that again I shall have to beat you."

A slight pause.

"Please, sir, may I blow my nose if I mayn't sniff?"

"Yes, Fletcher; don't be stupid."

Immediately there rose a chorus of "Mayn't we blow our noses, too, sir?
Why should Fletcher be the only one allowed to. It isn't fair."

Trundle gave way, and the rest of the hour was spent entirely in
coughing, shouting and sneezing. No work was done. But that was no
unusual occurrence in the extra French set.

This was, of course, the sort of amusement that could be only indulged
in once. It would grow stale a second time. But Briault's idea of fancy
dress was one that presented infinite opportunities and gave full scope
for originality. At first nothing very startling occurred. On a freezing
cold day the whole set would assemble without waistcoats and with their
coats wide open would complain bitterly of the heat; on a warm day they
would go in arrayed as for an Antarctic expedition in wonderful scarves
and huge gloves.

"It's disgraceful, sir, how cold this room is," Gordon complained. "I am
very sensitive to cold, and there are two windows open. They must be
shut."

"Well, Caruthers, if you find this room too cold," replied Trundle
sarcastically, "you may return to the warmth of your own study and write
me out the lesson ten times. Do you prefer that?"

Trundle thought that rather smart, but Gordon was never beaten.

"Sir, I do prefer an unfairly long imposition to an attack of
pneumonia," and with that he sailed out of the room; the "impot" was, of
course, never done. Only Benson did things for Trundle.

From this day on to discover a new kind of dress was the aim of Archie's
life. What he advised the form always copied. One day the Chief gave out
an order that, owing to the extreme cold, woollen waistcoats would be
allowed, provided they were of a quiet colour. That night Archie
searched the studies. For sixpence he purchased from a new boy a
threadbare carpet that had not been brushed or cleaned for generations.
This he cut up into six parts, and each School House member of the set
somehow or other made for himself a waistcoat out of them. Next day,
garbed in these, they rolled sedately to Trundle's, their coats flung
open, their hands in their trouser pockets.

Trundle sat speechless. At last he found words.

"What is the meaning of this confounded impertinence? Collins, Mansell,
Caruthers, Hunter, Lovelace, and you Fletcher, take off that filthy
stuff."

"That stuff, sir," drawled out Forbes. "What stuff?"

"Don't interfere, Forbes," rapped out Trundle. "Take them off, I say."

"Oh, do you mean our waistcoats, sir?" asked Hunter, in superbly feigned
surprise. "We couldn't take them off; we should catch a cold. The
Headmaster has just given out a notice about them. He said we could wear
them."

"He never gave you permission to garb yourselves in the refuse of the
neighbourhood."

"Refuse?" said Forbes. "Those waistcoats are of a most fashionable cut.
It's extremely hard to get that particular brand of cloth; my brother,
who is a member of the Bullingdon, told me----"

"I don't want to know anything about your brother, Forbes. Take off
those things. The Headmaster would never allow them."

"But, sir," insisted Archie. "He only said that they must be of a quiet
colour, and they are of a quiet colour, aren't they, sir?"

In truth they were. There was not a trace of colour visible anywhere.
Trundle gave in. He murmured something about asking the Headmaster, and
then put on Archie to con. He never asked the Chief; and there was no
need for him to do so. It is not pleasant wearing dust-laden carpets for
an hour. Such jests can only be undertaken at rare intervals.

But the culminating point was not reached till the last Thursday of the
term. It was boat-race day, and the set unanimously backed Oxford. At
ten o'clock the set was due to appear. But when Trundle arrived all he
found was Benson, who was in nervous apprehension lest he should have
come to the wrong room. If he had, he might lose some marks; and marks
were more to him than many boundaries. He smiled happily at Trundle.

"Ah, where are the rest, Benson?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Oh, well, I suppose we must wait, but it is a great nuisance. I wanted
to finish the book to-day, it's our last lesson, you know."

The next day was Good Friday.

For ten minutes they sat in silence. It takes a long time to prepare a
big rag; the curtain very seldom goes up punctually on the first night;
and there had been no dress rehearsal. There was a sound of scuffling
from the door in the cloister which led into the School House studies.
Then came the tread of measured feet. The door opened, and the great
procession entered.

At the head was Gordon in Ferguson's dressing-gown (a great white
confection with pale pink frogs) with a white Colts' cap on his head; he
beat time with a small swagger cane. Then came the trumpeters, Crosbie
and Forbes, who were producing strange harmonies on two pipes that they
had bagged from the armoury. Behind them Mansell walked in corps clothes
and a Second Fifteen cap. He was chanting a low dirge. On each side of
him marched the choristers, Lovelace and Hunter, in white sheets and
enormous psalters that they had borrowed from the chapel. They also sang
in a strange outlandish tongue. But the _pièce de resistance_ was the
banner. It consisted of a long piece of white calico on which was
inscribed in red ink: "Up, Up, Oxford. Down with the Cantabs." (Trundle
hailed from Emmanuel.) It was fastened at each end to a hockey stick,
and Fletcher and Collins bore it in solemnly. In the rear, Briault gave
his impressions of a cow being ill. Dyke was the showman.

"I will now present, gentlemen," he began, "my circus of touring
artistes, who are raising a fund for the endowment of the Oxford boating
club. I must beg you all----"

But Trundle cut short the oration. Seizing a cane, he rushed into the
cavalcade of Isis, and smote out full lustily. Pandemonium broke forth.
No battle-field was more rich in groans; no revue chorus produced so
much noise. It took a quarter of an hour to obtain quiet. But at last a
motley crowd sat down to study François Coppée.

And then came the _dénouement_. It was entirely unexpected and entirely
unrehearsed. There was a knock outside. The door opened and an amazing
apparition appeared on the threshold. Betteridge was in the Sixth. Very
enviously the night before he had listened to the preparations and plans
of the extra French set; cursing inwardly, he had sat down at ten
o'clock to do prose with the Chief. Faintly across the court were borne
the sounds of strife. He groaned within him. Suddenly the Chief stood
up.

"I find I shall have to leave you for a little. Some parents are coming
to interview me. I want you all to return quietly to your studies, and
continue the prose there."

Joyfully the Sixth trooped out. Betteridge rushed across the courts to
Trundle's class-room. For a second he listened outside, then a great
idea struck him. There was still half-an-hour left. Madly he tore up to
the dormitories. Luckily they were not locked. Five minutes later he
appeared before Mr Henry Trundle entirely changed. He had on a very
light brown suit, a pair of check spats, a rainbow-coloured waistcoat, a
heliotrope bow tie; a bowler was balanced on his head at an angle of
forty-five degrees, a camera was slung round his neck, in his hand he
had a notebook and pencil.

"Mr Trundle, I believe," he said. "I am the reporter of _The Fernhurst
Gazette_. We have received a wire that there has been a great pro-Oxford
demonstration in here, and we want to get an account of it in the stop
press news before our sister journal, _The Western Evening Transcript_.
Can you give me some notes?"

As he stopped, the set, that had remained spellbound, burst into a
hilarious shriek of joy. Everyone heard it; even Claremont woke up and
asked what it was. Arthur, the school _custos_, talks of it to this day.

And at this point the Chief comes into the story. He was showing the
parents in question round the studies when he heard an uproar proceeding
from somewhere near the cloisters. He excused himself from the parents,
ran downstairs, and tracked the noise to Trundle's class-room. He
entered. Never before had he seen disorder on such a generous scale. He
looked round.

"Mr Trundle--er--what er--set is this?"

"The extra French set, Headmaster."

The Chief half smiled. He walked out without another word.

Next term there was no extra French set.

The ragging of Trundle, however, was merely regarded relaxation from the
serious business of life. In an Easter term football is the only thing
that any respectable man will really worry about. And Gordon, judged on
these grounds, and his friends with him, would most certainly pass into
the most select society circle. The Thirds this year was a terribly
perplexing problem. Simonds had not taken enough trouble with his
juniors the term before. This term he was working hard enough, but it
was a bit late in the day to begin. On the first Saturday of the term a
scratch side took sixty-five points off the prospective Thirds side.

"If you play as badly as that on the day you'll lose by forty points,"
growled Simonds, "and you'll damned well deserve a beating, too."

"Curse the man," muttered Lovelace. "Whose bloody fault is it but his, I
should like to know? He is a disgrace to the House, working for some
rotten scholarship when he ought to be training on our juniors. Rotten
swine."

"Well, he's pretty well all right this term, at any rate," said Gordon.
"For the Lord's sake don't go grousing about; or we sha'n't keep the
score under eighty, let alone ninety. If we lose, we lose; and, my God,
we'll make 'em play for it."

The side certainly tried hard, and Simonds did his best, but all the
same, on the day of the match, Buller's were backing their chances of
running up a score of over thirty points at three to one.

"The swine!" said Gordon. "Swanking it about how they are going to lick
us to bits. My word, I would give something to smash them to
smithereens. I have taken on a bet with every man in Buller's whom I
found offering long odds. I stand to win quite a lot. And I shall win
it."

"God's truth," said Mansell, "do they think there's no guts left in the
House at all? They may go gassing about the number of Colts' badges they
have got, but they are not used to our way of playing. We go for the
ball, and if a man's in the light we knock him out of it. School House
footer is not pretty to look at; but it's the real thing, not a sort of
nursery affair. We go in to win."

Just before lunch a typical telegram from Meredith was pinned up on the
House board:

    "Go it House. And give them ----"

The blank was left to the imagination. The House remembered Meredith and
filled it in accordingly.

Nothing is more horrible than the morning before a first House match.
Gordon woke happy and expectant, but by break he had begun to feel a
little shivery, and at lunch-time he was done to the world. He ate
nothing, answered questions in vague monosyllables, and smiled half
nervously at everyone in general. He was suffering from the worst kind
of stage fright. And after all, to play in an important match before the
whole school is a fairly terrifying experience. As he sat trembling in
the pavilion, waiting for the whistle to blow, Gordon would have
welcomed any form of death, anything to save him from the ordeal before
him. The whistle blew at last. As he walked out from the pavilion in his
magenta-and-black jersey, an unspeakable terror gripped him; his knees
became very weak; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and then
something seemed to snap in his brain. He walked on quite cheerfully. He
was as a spectator. It seemed that it was not really he, but his ghost
that was walking on to the field. Subconsciously he lined up with the
rest. The School side in their white jerseys, the Colts with their red
dragons, seemed miles away. Collins kicked off. Gordon did not know he
was playing. A roar of "House" rose from the touch-line. Involuntarily
he joined it, thinking himself a looker-on, then suddenly Livingstone,
the Buller's inside three-quarter, caught the ball and ran towards him.
At once Gordon was himself. He forgot the crowd on the touch-line,
forgot his nervousness, forgot everything except that he was playing for
the House, and somehow or other had to drive the ball over that line. He
crashed into Livingstone, and the pair rolled into touch. A cheer
rippled down the line. Gordon did not hear it.

_The Fernhurstian_ described this match as "perhaps the finest ever
witnessed on the School ground," and the reporter was not far wrong.
Certainly that first mad rush of the House forwards was the most
glorious moment in Gordon's football career. It was all so unexpected,
so essentially wonderful. On the touch-line Mansell shouted himself
hoarse. The cries of "House" completely drowned those of "School." For
the first quarter of an hour the School pack never got the ball out of
their half. It seemed that the House must score. Time after time, the
School were forced to touch down. Stewart was brought down just the
wrong side of the line. Lovelace performed prodigies of valour. A gloom
descended over Buller's. On the Masters' side of the line "the Bull"
fumed and ground his teeth: "Go low, Reice, you stinking little funk.
Get round, forwards, and shove; you are slacking, the lot of you. Buck
up, Philson." Up and down he stamped, cursing at his men. Lovelace could
hardly refrain from laughing.

"Now, lads," shouted Stewart, "fair or foul; shove the ball over the
line!" Like a sledge-hammer Gordon crashed into the scrum. Wilkinson was
in his light, but Gordon was seeing red, his feet stamped on Wilkinson,
and found the ball. His elbows swung viciously, as he cut his way
through the scrum. Then someone caught him by the ankle. He went down
hard. A boot caught him on the side of the head. He got up blind with
wrath. "Fight! Fight!" he yelled. The House grovel swarmed in; the
outhouse pack shivered for a moment, then gave way. Collins and Gordon
burst through, the ball at their toes; Wilkinson dashed across and dived
for the ball; he clawed it for a second, Gordon's feet smashed it from
his hands, and Collins steered it past the back, and kicked it just over
the line and fell on top of it.

From the touch-line there burst a roar that must have been heard five
miles away. "Well done, laddie!" bawled Mansell. Even Ferguson waved his
stick in the air. It was a great moment.

As the School lined up behind their line, "the Bull" strode behind them.
"What are you doing? Put some life into your game. Buck up, all of you;
it is a filthy show. Guts!"

Lovelace took the kick. It was far out: the ball hardly rose from the
ground. In a state of feverish panic Livingstone dropped out. For a
second or two the School pressed. But it was impossible to withstand the
wild attack of the House for long. Collins, elated by his success,
brought off a magnificent dribble, and was forced into touch only a few
yards from the line. Half-time was not far off. And the House struggled
fiercely to get over the line once more. Up and down between the goal
line and the twenty-five the two scrums fought. It seemed only a matter
of time for another try to send the House across with a lead of six
points; but there is as much luck in rugger as in any game. The House
had heeled perfectly, Foster cut past one man, and passed out to
Richards. A roar of "House!" went up. A try was imminent, Richards
passed to Lovelace. But Livingstone was one of those three-quarters who
will miss an easy kick one minute and bring off a superb collar the
next. As Richards passed, he dashed between him and Lovelace,
intercepted the pass, and raced up the field. Collins caught him only a
foot away from the line, and from the line out Grienburg, a heavy Buller
forward, caught the ball and fell over the line by the flag, just as the
whistle was about to blow for half-time. It was very far out, and the
kick failed. The sides crossed over 3-3.

Simonds came on during the interval almost incoherent with excitement.
"Splendid, you fellows! Magnificent! Never saw anything like it. Stick
to it and you're bound to win. Simply putrid luck that last try ... keep
it up!"

On the touch-line there was no doubt as to the final result. "We shall
walk away with the Cup," said Mansell, and in a far corner Jones-Evans
was laying ten to one on the House in muffins. But a bit of good luck is
capable of making a side play in a totally different spirit, and the
combined Buller's and Claremont's side started off like a whirlwind.
Livingstone kicked off, and the outhouse scrum was on the ball in a
minute. For a second the House pack was swept off its feet, and during
that second Fitzgerald had dribbled to within ten yards of the line.
Foster made a splendid effort to stay the rush, and flung himself on the
very feet of the opposing forwards. But the check was only momentary;
the forwards rolled on, and it was only on the very line that Lovelace
rushed across, and falling on the ball, held it to him, till the House
forwards had time to come round. But the rules lay down that a player,
as soon as he has fallen on the ball, must get off it at once. Lovelace
realised that if he did so, a try would be inevitable. He hung on like
grim death, praying that the referee would not see. Before half the
House forwards had formed round, the whistle blew.

"Free kick to the School. You musn't lie on the ball like that,
Lovelace." The referee was not blind.

Anxiously the House lined up and waited for the kick. Livingstone had
converted nearly every goal on the Colts' games the term before. It was
a trying moment. He seemed to take hours placing the ball correctly.
There was an absolute hush as he ran up; then a great sigh, half of
relief, half of disappointment, burst from the touch-line. The ball rose
hardly six feet from the ground, and sailed harmlessly towards the
School House line. And then Turner made a mistake that he cursed himself
for ever afterwards. All that was necessary to do was to let the ball
bounce, and then touch down. But as the ball sailed towards him, Turner
was suddenly possessed with the longing to do something brilliant. He
was last man on the list, and had only been put into the side at the
last moment, owing to another forward stopping out. It was not
unnatural. He caught the ball.

"You blasted fool," yelled out Richards, "for God's sake find touch."

Turner lost his head. He gave a mild punt down field, and before the
House had realised what was happening, Wilkinson had caught the ball,
and dashed over the line between the posts. This time Livingstone made
no mistake. 8-3.

For the next five minutes the House side was entirely demoralised.
Nothing went right. The forwards did not keep together. Gordon cursed
foully, and only made matters worse. Lovelace's kicks only found touch a
few feet down the line. Richards rushed up and down fuming, and upset
everyone. It was due only to a miracle and some fine work by Foster that
the School did not score at least three times. Foster did everything
during those awful minutes. Rush after rush he stopped, just as
Fitzgerald was looking dangerous, and he brought down his fly-half
every time. Gordon was amazed at his performance; he had always rather
looked down on him before. He had never imagined he was so plucky.

But it takes more than two unexpected tries to throw a School House side
off its balance for long. Soon the forwards began to reassert
themselves. Burgess the wing three-quarter, a self-satisfied member of
Buller's, who was in VI. B, and whose conceit far excelled his
performances, got away and began to look dangerous. But Gordon came up
behind him. He loathed Burgess, and flinging aside all the Fernhurst
traditions about collaring low, he leapt in the air, and crashed on top
of him. Burgess collapsed like paper. A great howl went up from the
School House. New life seemed to enter into the side. The grovel flocked
round, and Collins, heaving Burgess off the ball with a flying kick,
dribbled the ball to the half-way line. A scrum formed up and from the
heel Richards got the ball to Lovelace, who broke through the defence
and with a clear field ahead made for the line.

"Run like hell!" shouted Simonds from the touch-line. He was standing on
the masters' side of the ground, just in front of the Chief's wife. But
he was past caring about social etiquette. All he wanted was to see the
House ahead once more. "Faster, man, run--oh, damn!"

Just on the line the ubiquitous Livingstone caught him up, and the pair
rolled into touch. If, as some say, there is nothing much finer to watch
in football than an uphill fight, then the Thirds of 1913 was most
certainly the greatest game ever played on the Lower. Lighter and slower
than their opponents, the House kept them on the defensive for the rest
of the afternoon. Collins was a splendid sight, his hair fell in a
cascade over his eyes, his nose was bleeding, his jersey was torn half
off his back, but he did not care. His feet were everywhere, and anyone
who got in his light was sorry for it. Turner, with the thought that he
was the cause of Wilkinson's try, fought heroically. Once when
Williamson, a Claremont's forward, began to dribble, he rushed into him
sideways and with a "soccerbarge" knocked him flying into touch, and
took the ball back inside the twenty-five. It was a great fight. But no
one can strive successfully against the will of the gods, and certainly
the stars in their courses fought against the House. Ten minutes before
time Livingstone, who had been systematically starved the whole game,
got a pass about the half-way line. He was the fastest man in the field.
No one could touch him; he made straight for the corner flag, and scored
amid the tumultuous applause of Buller's. There could be no doubt about
the result now. Before the eyes of Jones-Evans there rose a prospect of
eternally treating outhouse men to muffins. Mansell swore violently.
"The Bull" walked up and down the touch-line beaming with delight.
Simonds was silent.

"Well, you men," said Richards, "we've been beaten, but by heaven we'll
shove them the last few minutes. Go for them, tooth and nail."

The House did so. In hall that night Burgess announced that there was
not a single gentleman in the School House, a remark which resulted in a
rather unpleasant half-hour with "the Bull" two days later. For these
last minutes produced one of the most glorious charges of the day. From
the twenty-five right in to the School half, the ball was carried.
Nothing could stop that wild rush. Livingstone and Wilkinson went down
before it, but they were passed by. Burgess made a half-hearted attempt
to fall on the ball, but did not get up for several seconds, and the
House was well in the School half when Gordon kicked a little too hard
and the School back, fielding the ball, managed to find touch. But the
House was still undaunted. From the line out, the ball was flung to
Richards, who, putting his head down, literally fought his way through
the scrum and tottered out the other side. He handed off Wilkinson,
dodged the fly-half, and made for the centre of the ground. Livingstone
came across at him. "With you, Richards," yelled Lovelace.

As Livingstone brought Richards crashing to the ground, the ball was
safely in Lovelace's hands. Lovelace was about half-way between
mid-field and the twenty-five. He ran a few yards, steadied himself, and
took a drop.

In deadly silence the School watched the flight of the ball. It sailed
high and straight towards the goal. "It's over," murmured the Chief
excitedly. But as the ball neared the posts it travelled slower, a
slight breeze caught it, blew it over to the right. It hit the right
post and fell back into play. As the full-back returned it to mid-field
the whistle blew for no-side.

"School, three cheers for the House!" shouted Livingstone.

"House, three cheers for the School!" responded Richards.

And then everyone poured over the ropes on to the field.

"Never mind, you men," said Simonds; "it was a damned fine show and
better than fifty wins."

The House was proud of its side. As the Fifteen trooped across the
courts on the way to the changing-room the House lined up by the chains
of the Sixth Form green, and cheered them.

"Well played, Caruthers!" shouted someone.

It was Gordon's first taste of real success.

That night there was a big feed in No. 19. They were all out of training
for three days; and they made the most of it. During the last fortnight
they had been allowed only fruit between meals.

"It's the finest performance since I've been in the House," Mansell
declared. "Meredith's Two Cock wasn't in it. Their side was twice as
strong on paper, and my Lord, we gave it them."

"Yes," said Lovelace, "and you wait till this side is the Three Cock;
there'll be a bit of a change then."

"You're right there," shouted Mansell. "We sha'n't pull it off this
year, nor the year after that; but you wait and see what'll happen in
1915. That's the year when the House will revive the great days of Ross.
My lads, we sha'n't regret the lean years when the years of plenty come;
and the Three Cock Cup is back on the old oak sideboard. Our day will
come."

That night Gordon dreamt of the great future that was opening out for
the House; and he was thankful that he would see it. Like the runners in
the torch race many would have prepared the way for victory; but it was
to him and his friends that the glory of the final triumph would belong.
For he would win the race: he would carry home the torch.



CHAPTER III: TIN GODS


After this match a new phase in Gordon's life may be said to have begun.
He had for the first time felt what it was to be really successful. When
he had got his Colts' cap the world had seemed at his feet; but it was
nothing to what he experienced now. For he had borne the brunt of the
House's battle. He had played a principal part in a wonderful
achievement. The House looked on him as one of its chosen defenders. He
was in the limelight, and he had no intention of ever drifting out of
it. When we have experienced the really great, the things that pleased
once charm no more. After basking in the blaze of a summer afternoon
there is something poignantly pathetic in watching the amber beams of a
December sun filter through the trees. Gordon had his fingers on the
pedestal of fame, and he intended never to loose his grasp. His position
had been obtained by brilliant football, and if he had been able to
retain it in the same way all would have been well. But the gods willed
it otherwise.

It was generally admitted that the House stood no chance of winning the
Two Cock, and when the House agreed on its own defeat, prospects were
certainly very gloomy. So Gordon only interested himself in his own
performances. He began to wonder if there was any chance of his getting
a place in the Three Cock. Simonds was undoubtedly pleased with him, and
Henry, the only forward senior to him, had been doing rather badly
lately. In the trial games he played with a mad enthusiasm. On the
Friday evening the Two Cock side was posted. He was above Lovelace and
Richards. Henry was only one above him.

Just before lunch on the day of the match Mansell came up to him.

"I say, I have got some good news for you."

"What is it?" Gordon was feverish with impatience.

"Well, I don't think I had better tell you."

"Oh, I say, do; don't be a swine."

"No, I don't think I shall; it would make you too bucked with life."
Mansell smiled at him kindly. Gordon was rather annoyed.

But on the way down to hall, he overheard Mansell talking to Tester in
the door of the changing-room.

"Simonds is going to play Caruthers in the Three Cock instead of Henry,
if he plays at all decently to-day," Mansell was saying.

"Oh, I am glad of that," Tester answered. "He's a good kid."

The earth swayed dizzily as Gordon made his way down to hall. He did not
feel at all nervous. He was quite certain of himself. The day was bound
to end with him a member of the House Fifteen. All he had to do was to
play his average game. Mansell had said so.

As he stepped on to the field, he was perfectly aware of his own
personality. He did not feel a sort of spectator, as he had done in the
Thirds. It was all so clear. He even smiled at Tester as he lined up.

But a Two Cock is very different from a Thirds. Men from Christy's were
playing who were shining lights on Senior Leagues, and who would easily
have got their Seconds if they had tried, but who, because they were in
Christy's, did not take the trouble. Christy's should have beaten
Buller's, but they were too slack to go into proper training, and in
spite of the brilliance of Dyke and Pemberton, Buller's won by six
points after being ten points behind at half-time. As individuals,
however, Christy's were a formidable lot, and when combined with
Buller's formed a much heavier and larger side than any Gordon had
played against before. He was not very large, and was used to Junior
Leagues. For an hour he was swept off his feet. He could not keep pace
with the game. He was flung from one position into another; he followed
after the scrum; he felt like a new boy playing for the first time. At
half-time Simonds came up thoroughly fed up with life. The score was
fifteen-nothing.

"For heaven's sake, Caruthers, get in and shove, if you can't do
anything better. You haven't done a thing the whole game."

The game was a nightmare. Mansell looked at him curiously that evening
at tea.

Gordon muttered something about a kick on the head, and being unable to
see anything.

On Sunday evening a list of those in training for the Three Cock was put
up. There were ten forwards down. Gordon was bottom on the list; both
Henry and Collins were above him. In the football world his claim to
fame for the moment faded away. If he was to remain in the public gaze,
he would have to attract attention some other way.

And so, at the most critical point in the development of his character,
Gordon began all unconsciously to seek for new ways of making himself
conspicuous. He did not know what he was doing. If someone had told him
that he was doing absurd things merely to get talked about, he would
have laughed. But all the same, it would have been true. His preparatory
schoolmaster said of him once: "There is some danger of his becoming the
school buffoon." At his prep, the boys were too closely looked after and
kept down for any one person to become pre-eminent at anything. And so a
subconscious love of notoriety drove Gordon on to play the fool for a
whole term most damnably.

It was during the end of the Easter and the whole of the summer term
that Gordon earned a reputation for reckless bravado and disregard of
all authority that stuck to him through his whole career. Up till now he
had done things merely because he had wanted to. He followed the
inclination of the moment, but now it was different. It is pleasant to
be talked of as a mixture between Don Juan and Puck; and Gordon was
sufficiently good at games to make himself an attractive and not a
repulsive figure. The Public School boy admires the Meredith type; he
despises the man who is no good at games, and who plays fast and loose
in his house. Gordon was not unpopular, and indeed some of his escapades
were really funny, as, for instance, when he cut through the string of
the chapel organ on which a weight is attached to show whether the organ
is full of air or not. The next morning in chapel the choir began but
the organ was mute. The hymn broke off into a miserable wail. The whole
service was one silent ripple of merriment. Rogers was taking the
service, and was quite at sea without the help of music. Gordon earned a
considerable measure of notoriety for the performance. On his way to the
tuck shop, Ben, the captain of the Fifteen, came up and spoke to him.

"Caruthers, I say, are you the man who made the organ mute?"

"Yes."

"By Jove, you are a sportsman."

Gordon was thus encouraged to continue on his road to buffoonery, and
when the summer term came, he found no reason to pursue any other
course. On the cricket field he could not get a run; first he hit
wildly, then he began to poke; but all without the least success. After
a few weeks he almost ceased to try, except in House matches. "The Bull"
got furious.

"Look here, Caruthers," he said, "I don't know if you are slack, or
merely incompetent. But when I see you make fifty against my house in a
Junior House match, and then play inside half-volleys on the upper, I
begin to think all you care about is your house. Don't you care for
Fernhurst, boy?"

Gordon was genuinely worried about this. He admired "the Bull"
immensely: indeed, "the Bull" was about the only person at Fernhurst
whose opinion he valued at all. He made strenuous efforts to get runs,
but it was no use. He was clean out of form. His fifty _v._ Buller's was
his only score during the season, but "the Bull" did not know this. He
thought Caruthers tried for his house and slacked with the Colts. The
climax was reached during the Milton Match. Gordon went in first with
Foster. In five minutes he and Lovelace and a man from Claremont's were
out for four runs. "The Bull" chewed grass in a far corner of the field.

And then, to crown everything, Gordon missed the easiest of catches. He
caught Lovelace's eye. It was really rather funny. The two of them burst
into sudden laughter. Lovelace was nearly doubled up. "The Bull" thought
they were laughing at him.

"I can't think what's gone wrong with Caruthers this term," he said to
Fry, the captain of the School House. "He was so promising once; he
doesn't seem to be trying this term."

Next day Gordon was left out of the Colts' side. The day after the chair
in Trundle's class-room suddenly collapsed. The leg had been sawn half
through, and Trundle fell over on the floor.

Gordon was riding for a fall, and two days before Commemoration, to use
his own phrase, he "fairly put his foot in it." This term he had a
double dormitory with one Davenport, a scholar who was a year junior to
Gordon; but was in the same form. The Chief had thought Gordon a bit big
for the Nursery, but there was no room for him down below; so he and
Davenport lived at the end of the passage in glorious isolation. It was
a great luxury; they were allowed several privileges; they could keep
their light on till ten; they could go to bed when they liked, and it
was here that they usually did their preparation. Davenport, however,
suddenly contracted measles; and Gordon, who had grown too slack to do
his work alone, used to get leave for Sydenham, a rather insignificant,
self-righteous member of V. A, who had come a term before him, to come
and prepare his work in the double room. Leave was always granted, and
when Davenport returned, the scheme was still continued. On this
particular night, Davenport had got a headache. He said he was going to
stop out next day, and refused to prepare Thucydides. It also happened
that the House tutor was away that night, and so the Chief went round
the dormitories, putting out the lights. He did not know of the custom
by which Sydenham came up to do the con. He was not very pleased, but
after a little hesitation gave leave. The door was shut. Sydenham
perched himself on the chest of drawers, Gordon produced an aid to quick
translation, Davenport turned over the pages of _Nash's_. The Abbey
bells also happened to be ringing that night. It was quite impossible to
hear any normal sound down the passage; and so Gordon was quite unaware
of the Chief's intention to revisit them and see if they were really
working, till the door opened and the Chief walked in. Gordon lost his
head; he sat up in bed and gaped. Thucydides lay on one side of the bed,
the crib on the other.

The Chief picked up the book.

"Ah, does Mr Macdonald allow you to use this?"

In the really dramatic moments of our lives it is always the inane that
first suggests itself. It was so likely that Macdonald would have given
them permission.

"No, sir."

"Er, Davenport, are you preparing--er yes, Thucydides with Caruthers,
too?"

"No, sir." Davenport thanked heaven that he had a headache. He had
helped in the work of deceit every night the whole term. The Chief
thought he must be a boy of strong moral courage; and in many ways he
was, but cribbing, after all, was part of the daily routine.

The Chief took up the book.

"Sydenham, go back to your study."

He turned down the light and went out. His footsteps died out down the
passage.

"Damn!" said Gordon.

"_In excelsis gloria_," said Davenport.

"And it was a rotten crib, too," said Gordon.

By next morning the story was all round the school.

"You will be birched for certain," was Tester's cheerful comment, "and
serve you right for getting caught."

"I sha'n't be such a fool again," growled Caruthers.

And certainly he profited by his experience. A year later the House
Tutor came into his study when he was preparing Vergil with the aid of
Dr Giles' text. He put a piece of blotting-paper over the crib, and
chatted for a few minutes quite easily about the chances of the Eleven
_v._ Tonford.

But when we are in trouble, there are few of us who can see so far ahead
as to feel thankful at the thought that we have learnt something that
will be a help to us in the future. Gordon was thoroughly fed up. But it
was not his game to show his feelings. He went about laughing as though
nothing had happened at all; he treated the whole thing as a colossal
joke. Sydenham was, however, very nervous, and showed it. Gordon ragged
him mercilessly.

"My good man, what the hell does it matter? Chief's not much of a
bircher, and don't gas about disgrace, and such muck. This isn't a St
Winifred's sort of school. It will only mean a bad report."

In School that day Gordon was in great form. By the end of the morning
he had accumulated in all three hundred lines from various sources for
ragging.

"That man, Caruthers, is some fellow," said Ferguson to Simonds at
lunch. "He looks as if he enjoyed being in rows."

"Perhaps he does," was the answer. "He is certainly always doing his
best to get into them. But he is in for a birching this time."

But Simonds was wrong. The Chief was too utterly fed up to do anything;
moreover, he saw that a birching would do Gordon no good. He would only
boast about it.

It was not until a week later that Gordon was called up before the
Chief.

"Caruthers, I want to know where you got hold of that crib."

As a matter of fact he had obtained it by means of Rudd, who had a large
stock of such articles, and let them out on loan for the term. It was a
paying business. Gordon, of course, could not divulge this.

"I got it in the holidays, sir."

The Chief was surprised and shocked at this. He could quite easily
understood that a boy should buy a crib at some second-hand bookshop in
the town, during term time, when surrounded with the general atmosphere
of Public School dishonesty; but it did seem unnatural that a boy, while
living in the clean surroundings of his home, should be scheming to
cheat his fellows and masters. The Chief said as much; Gordon did not
quite follow him. Besides everyone cribbed.

"What I can't understand, Caruthers," the Chief went on, "is that you
always assume a tremendous keenness on the School and House, of which
you give absolutely no proof in your actions except on the field. This
is the second time I have had to speak to you on this subject. Do you
imagine that the good reputation of the House depends solely on its
performance in the Thirds, or that of the School on its number of
victories in School matches?"

Gordon thought it did. But he knew that "Yes" was hardly the answer the
Chief expected. He held his peace. It was no use arguing the subject.

When he came out of the study, he met Rudd palpitating with funk.

"You didn't say anything about my lending you that crib, did you?" Rudd
was very frightened of the Chief.

"Of course not, you bloody-looking fool. The best thing you can do is to
go and get me a better crib with all possible speed, my friend. And mind
it's a decent one. The last one was rotten; and I can't do without one.
I was bottled yesterday."

In three days Rudd's agent from town had procured him a fine edition of
the Sicilian expedition. Davenport and Gordon did some superb construe
during the remainder of the term.

It is, of course, very easy to run down any existing system; and the
Public School system has come in for its fair share of abuse. Yet it
must be remembered that no one has yet been able to devise a better. And
after all, for the average man it is not such a bad training. It is
inclined to destroy individuality, to turn out a fixed pattern; it
wishes to take everyone, no matter what his tastes or ideas may be, and
make him conform to its own ideals. In the process, much good is
destroyed, for the Public School man is slack, easy-going, tolerant, is
not easily upset by scruples, laughs at good things, smiles at bad, yet
he is a fine follower. He has learnt to do what he is told; he takes
life as he sees it and is content. So far so good. With the average
individual the system is not so very unsatisfactory.

But take the case of the boy who has it in him to be a leader, who is
not merely content to follow, but wishes to be at the head, in the
forefront of the battle. What of him? Gordon went to Fernhurst with the
determination to excel, and at once was brought face to face with the
fact that success lay in a blind worship at the shrine of the god of
Athleticism. Honesty, virtue, moral determination--these mattered not at
all. The author of _Eric_ and such others who have never faced, really
faced, life and seen what it is, talk of the incalculable good one boy
can do, who refuses to be led astray by temptations, and remains true to
the ideals he learnt in the nursery. If there does come into any school
such a boy, he is merely labelled as "pi," and taken no notice of. He
who wishes to get to the front has to strive after success on the field,
and success on the field alone. This is the way that the future leaders
of England are being trained to take their proper place in the national
struggle for a right and far-sighted civilisation. On this alone the
system stands condemned. For the history of a nation is the history of
its great men, and the one object of the Public School is to produce not
great men, but a satisfactory type.

Gordon found that, as soon as he was recognised as a coming athlete,
popularity was his, and that on the strength of his physical abilities
he could do pretty well what he liked. For there is no strong feeling in
schools on the subject of honesty and morality. And it is not unnatural
that a boy, finding that no one will object if he follows the call of
pleasure, drifts with the stream. And then Gordon went off suddenly at
games, as the best athlete must at some time or other. Like many others,
he loved popularity and fame. So, in order to keep in the limelight, he
flung aside all pretences of conscience, and got the reputation of being
"the devil of a sport"--a reputation that is a passport to Public School
society, but is damning to any man's character. Only a few realise this.
Betteridge was one. He was not an athlete, but was clever and in the
Sixth. He enjoyed a rag, but saw the difference between liberty and
licence. He was a freethinker, and saw life with a wide vision that
embraced the whole horizon.

"Look here, Caruthers," he said one evening, during hall, in the last
half of the summer term, "I don't want to say anything; but you know you
are making a most awful ass of yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"You know quite well what I mean. I don't think it's your fault; it is
the fault of this rotten system under which we live. You are not what
you were when you first came. Of course, it is natural to crib and fool
about, but you are going a bit far. One day you will be captain of this
House. You'll be sorry then."

"Oh, don't be a damned ass, Betteridge, preaching to me. I know what I
am doing. It's not long that I shall have to enjoy myself. I shall be in
the Sixth soon, and shall have to slow down then. But at present I shall
do damned well what I like. After all, what does it matter if I do rot
all day and muck about generally? It makes no difference to you or the
House. It's my own damned business, and besides, everyone else does it!"

It was useless to reason with him. The argument that "others do it" is
impossible to combat. And, after all, environment is what counts, and it
is a fairly dangerous environment with which to surround any but the
average sensual being who eats, drinks, laughs and is merry, and never
thinks at all. And yet masters are surprised when they find the big man
whom they thought impregnable following the accepted customs. They say:
"What a pity! A fine fellow gone to the dogs, and after all we've done
for him, too!" and yet whose fault is it?

But this is by the wayside. For better or for worse the character of
Gordon Caruthers was developing on its own lines. Criticism should be
withheld till the last threads are woven, and we can judge of the
complex whole.

       *       *       *       *       *

The summer term was drawing to a close. It had not been very successful
as far as Gordon was concerned. His cricket had frankly been a failure,
and the prominence he had gained in his House hardly compensated for the
misgivings with which the Chief and Buller regarded his future. It
seemed as if he could not help running up against "the Bull."

A-K was knocked out of the Senior House competition at once. They drew
Christy's and were beaten by an innings. Gordon made eleven and fifteen,
and was missed three times while making them. Foster, however, got a
very sturdy thirty-three not out, and took three wickets. He got his
House cap. Gordon was furious, and swore that he was jolly well not
going to try any more that term.

During the final senior he was strolling round the field with Tester,
both of them in cloth suits, unchanged for games. "The Bull" came up
behind them.

"Caruthers, why aren't you changed this afternoon?"

"Well sir, we only had a House game this afternoon, so Tester and I got
leave off to watch the match."

"But your House is not playing in it."

"No, sir."

"Well, then, what on earth do you mean by slacking about the field like
this? It's your duty to be training yourself too, so that some day you
may be of some use to Fernhurst, and here are you slacking about,
instead of asking the pro. to give you a net. Slackness! filthy
slackness! I don't know what's wrong with you this term; you were quite
keen once."

He strolled off, scratching the back of his head. "The Bull" always did
this when in a bad temper.

"Poor old chap," murmured Tester, "he takes these little things so much
to heart. He loathes me because I don't sweat myself to death all day at
the nets. He never said anything to me; he has given me up as a bad job.
Poor old chap!"

"Well, I suppose we ought to have been at the nets," said Gordon.

"If we did everything that we ought to do in this world, we should never
have a moment's time to do the things we liked."

"I suppose so," said Gordon, "but still, you know--oh, well, what the
hell does it matter? By Jove, well hit, Dyke!"

The conversation turned again to the match.

Next term Gordon had arranged to have a study with Lovelace. Tester was
going to be a prefect, and wanted to himself the big upstairs study that
Clarke had had. Gordon was staying in No. 1.

He was not sorry. He did not quite understand Tester; he was too clever,
and Gordon never knew exactly what he was driving at. Lovelace, on the
other hand, was his best friend; they had played together in several
sides, and next term Lovelace would captain the footer Colts. The future
seemed very roseate. Moreover, he was certain to get into the Sixth, and
that meant many privileges. He did not have to attend rolls, he could be
late for tea, there was no need for him to get leave to speak to anyone
in hall. It meant many study hours, and it would also bring him into
contact with the Olympians. There was Garter, who had been in the Sixth
four terms, and was in the Second Fifteen. He would meet Betteridge.
There was Rudd to rag. Prothero had reduced his time-table to one hour
in school a day, and was an authority to consult on any subject
regarding avoiding work. Davenport would be promoted, too. Gordon's day
of power was beginning to dawn. Next term he would be distinctly a House
blood. It was a ravishing thought.

One evening in exam. week Hunter announced casually after tea: "I say,
do you remember Betteridge talking once about a man called Ferrers?
Well, he is coming here as a master next term."

"Oh, Lord, is he really?" said Fletcher. "I suppose he will be full of
rotten new theories, and he will probably want to make us work."

"Well, I always give a master a good fortnight's trial before I do any
work for him," said Tester; "at the end of that, I usually find his
keenness has worn off. I bet he will be the same as all the rest."

"I doubt it," said Betteridge; "he is a man."

"Well, whatever he is, he is going to have no effect on me," said
Gordon, with a finality that quite closed the question.



CHAPTER IV: THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY


As often as not, it is mere chance that provides the most essentially
important moments in our lives. It is easy to talk of the inevitable
march of Fate, but more usually a chance word or look alters our entire
outlook on life. And so it was that the course of Gordon's whole career
was suddenly changed into a different channel, at a moment when he was
drifting placidly on the stream of a lax conventionality, and was
frittering away all his opportunities for sheer lack of anything that
would spur him on to a clearer conception of what life means.

During the whole of the term, Tester and Gordon had done their early
morning preparation on the V. A green. As they had answered their names
at roll, they would take out deck-chairs and cushions and luxuriously
pass the three quarters of an hour before breakfast reclining back,
putting the finishing touches to the evening's work. It is a very
beautiful spot, the V. A green. On three sides it is flanked with
buildings; on the fourth is a low wall, which is used as an exit for
nocturnal expeditions. It was under the V. A class-room that Gordon and
Tester put their chairs. Opposite them was the grey library; beyond rose
the Abbey, solemn and austere; on the left was the chapel and the long
cloister leading to big school. In the early morning a great hush
pervaded the place. The only sound was the faint tolling of the
Almshouse bell. Between the Abbey and the library the sun rose in a
blaze of glory.

On the last morning of the term Gordon and Tester lolled back in their
comfortable chairs. Gordon was trying to learn his rep. for the exam.
that morning. Tester was reading _The Oxford Book of English Verse_; the
exams for the Sixth were over.

"Oh, damn this," said Gordon. "I can't learn the stuff."

He flung the book down, and lay back watching the first rays of the sun
flicker on the cold bronze of the Abbey.

"This has been a rotten term, you know," he said at last.

"Yes?" said Tester. He was engrossed in poetry.

"Well, I got into the deuce of a row with Chief, and I never got my
House cap, and I've broken it off with Jackson."

Tester put down his book and sat up.

"Caruthers, you know you are wasting your time. Here are you with all
your brilliance and your personality worrying only about House caps and
petty intrigues, and little things like that. What you want to realise
is that there is something beyond the aim of a Fernhurst career. You are
clever enough; but poetry and art mean nothing to you."

"Oh poetry, that's all right for Claremont and asses like that, but
what's the use of it?"

"Oh, use, use! Nothing but this eternal cry about the use of a thing.
Poetry is the sort of beacon-light of man. What's wrong with you is that
you've read the wrong stuff. It is all very well for a middle-aged man
to worship Wordsworth and calm philosophy. But youth wants colour, life,
passion, the poetry of revolt. Now look here, let me read you this, and
then tell me what you think of it."

"Oh, all right. Is it long?"

"No, not very."

In a low, clear voice, Tester began to read the great spring Chorus in
_Atalanta_, into which Swinburne has crowded all that he ever knew of
joy and happiness. In everyone there lies the love of beauty--"we needs
must love the highest when we see it"--but the pity is that so few of us
are ever brought face to face with the really lovely, or perhaps, if we
are, we come to it too late. Our power of appreciation has lain too long
dormant ever to be aroused. And at school it is the common thing for
boys to pass through their six years' traffic without ever realising
what beauty is. They are told to read Vergil, Tennyson and Browning, the
philosophers, the comforters of old age, poets who "had for weary feet
the gift of rest." But boys never hear of Byron, Swinburne and Rossetti,
men with big flaming hearts that cried for physical beauty and the
loveliness of tangible things. As a result they drift out into the
world, to take their place with the dull, commonplace Philistine who has
made the House of Commons what it is.

But as Gordon heard Tester reading the wonderful riot of melody, which
conjures up visions of rainbows, and far-receding sunsets, of dew
gleaming like crystals in the morning, of water gliding like forgotten
songs, a strange peace descended on him. He had not known that there
could be anything so intensely beautiful. Over the great Abbey the sun
was rising heavenwards; down the street past the Almshouses he heard the
happy sound of a young girl laughing. The world was full of strange new
things; there was a new meaning in the song of the blackbird, in the
rustle of the leaves, in the whispering of the warm wind. And suddenly
there came over him a sensation of how far he himself was below the
splendour of it all. He had walked through life with blinded eyes; with
dulled senses he had stared at the ground, while all the time the great
ideal of beauty was shining from the blue mountains of man's desire.

Tester had finished reading.

"Well what do you think of it?"

"Oh, it's wonderful. I never dreamt of such music."

"Yes, you see, masters grow old; they forget what it was like to be
young; they want us to look at life through their spectacles, and, of
course, we can't. Youth and age is an impossible combination; we have to
cut a way for ourselves, Caruthers, sometimes we fail, sometimes we
succeed. I've made a pretty fair mess of things, because I have gone on
my own way; because I have had no one to guide me. I found little
consolation in mature thought, and I am not one of the fools who has
just taken things for granted; I strike out by myself. I want to find
what beauty really is, and I shall find it by sifting out everything
first. I have probed a good many things one way and another, some ugly,
some beautiful. I have followed the course of Nature. After all, Nature
is more likely to be right than an artificial civilisation. I follow
where my inclinations lead me. I hate laws and regulations. As I've
often said, I did not ask to come into this world, so I shall do as I
please, and I think that I shall reach home all right in the end.
Literature is a great sign-post!"

"Yes," said Gordon simply. "I never imagined it before. Who wrote that,
by the way?"

"Swinburne, the great pagan who was sick of the sham and pretence of his
day, and cried for the glories of Rome. Look here, Caruthers, come down
to Gisson's afterwards, and as a memento of our year together in Study
1, just let me give you Swinburne's _Poems and Ballads_. It's great
stuff; you'll like it, and you'll find there something a bit better than
your caps and pots."

Gordon did not answer. The sun had now risen high above the Abbey.
Across the silence was wafted the cracked notes of the School House
bell; there was a rush of feet from the studies. For a few minutes
Gordon lay back in his chair quite quiet. A new day had broken on his
life. The future opened out with wide promises, with possibilities of
great things. For he had heard at last the call which, if ever a man
hears it, he casts away the nets and follows after--the call of
beauty--"which is, after all, only truth, seen from another side."



BOOK III: UNRAVELLING THE THREADS

    "... and drank delight of battle with my peers."

    TENNYSON.

    "Yet would you tread again
      All the road over?
    Face the old joy and pain--
      Hemlock and clover?
    Yes. For it still was good,
      Good to be living,
    Buoyant of heart and blood;
      Fighting, forgiving."

   AUSTIN DOBSON.

    "Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard."

    LINDSAY GORDON.



CHAPTER I: COMMON ROOM FACES


Miracles do not happen, nor do sudden conversions. Man very rarely
changes. What he is at the beginning, he is at the end; all that occurs
is that at various stages of his journey he looks at life from a
different point of view, or rather through a different pair of
spectacles, for never on this earth do we really see things as they are.
When Gordon found new influences at work upon him, when he discovered
through literature that there is something higher than the ignoble
monotony of the average individual routine, he did not suddenly change
his whole way of life, and, "like a swimmer into cleanness leaping," put
out of sight behind him the things that had pleased him once. Right and
wrong are merely relative terms. What was considered right in the days
of Cæsar spells social ostracism to-day. And there are a few who prefer
to see life as the Romans saw it, and to follow the ideals of power and
physical beauty. For such life is not easy. Yet we are not so much
better than "when Cæsar Augustus was Egypt's Lord!" The question of what
is really right and what is really wrong will never be satisfactorily
decided, on this earth at any rate, for we cannot all wear the same
spectacles for long. Temperament is all-powerful.

And Gordon made no attempt to settle the question. He did not suddenly
feel a loathing for his former pleasures, but during the long summer
holidays, as he bathed in the waters of English poetry, it seemed to him
as if he had outgrown them, and cast them aside. Perhaps in the future
they might momentarily appear beautiful once more, but he did not think
that he would ever again wear them for very long, for they were, after
all, little, insignificant, trivial, and contrasted poorly with the
white heat of Byron's passion, and the flaming ardour of Swinburne, that
cried for "the old kingdoms of earth and their kings." As he read on,
while the summer sun sank in a red sea behind the gaunt Hampstead firs,
read of the proud, domineering soul of Manfred, visualised the burst of
passion that had prompted the murder in _The Last Confession_, felt the
thundering paganism of the _Hymn to Proserpine_, he was overcome with a
tremendous hatred for the system that had kept literature from him as a
shut book, that had offered him mature philosophy instead of colour and
youth, and tried to prevent him from seeking it for himself. So this is
the way, he thought, the youth of England is being brought up. Masters
tell us to fix all our energies on achieving school successes, and think
of calf-bound prizes and tasselled caps all day long. No wonder that, if
they bind us down to trivial things, we become like the Man with the
Muck-Rake, and drift on with low aims, with nothing to help us to live
differently from cattle. No wonder the whole common room is repeatedly
shocked by the discovery of some sordid scandal.

Gordon's soul was very arrogant and very intolerant, and it was rather
unfortunate that, at a time when he was bubbling over with rebellion,
Arnold Lunn's novel, _The Harrovians_, should have been published, as no
previous school story had done it stripped school life of sentiment, and
a storm of adverse criticism broke out. Old Harrovians wrote to the
papers, saying that they had been at Harrow for six years, and that the
conversation was, except in a few ignoble exceptions, pure and manly,
and that the general atmosphere was one of clean, healthy
broadmindedness. Gordon fumed. What fools all these people were! When
they were told the truth, they would not believe it. Prophets must
prophesy smooth things, or else were not prophets. How was there ever
going to be any hope of improvement till the true state of affairs was
understood?

And then a sudden doubt came to Gordon. What if these old Harrovians
were right? What if this man Lunn had depicted the life of the
exceptional, not of the average boy? What then of Fernhurst? He had
judged the book by his own experiences. Was it possible that his school
was worse than other schools, and what was usual there, would be
exceptional at Rugby, Eton and Winchester? He had been so proud of
Fernhurst, with its grey cloisters and dreaming Abbey, with its
magnificent Fifteen and fine boxers. He had cursed at the Public School
system because he thought it had done harm to Fernhurst. What if
Fernhurst and not the system were at fault? For several days this
worried him.

One evening, however, during the last week of the holidays, a Mr Ainslie
came to dinner. He had been a contemporary of Lunn's at Harrow, and had
himself been head of his house for two years. The conversation had
drifted to a discussion of recent books: _The Woman Thou Gavest Me_,
_Sinister Street_, _The Devil's Garden_, _Round the Corner_.

"By the way, Gordon," said Ainslie, "read that book, _The Harrovians_?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"What did you think of it?"

"I liked it very much--thought it was the finest school story I had ever
read." Gordon felt rather nervous. He was aware that he was on thin ice,
and timidly blurted out: "But, sir, was it true to Harrow life?"

"Absolutely; and it's as true to the life of any other Public School.
They are all much the same, you know, at the root."

An immense weight was lifted from Gordon's mind.

"I thought so, sir, but such a lot of fellows wrote to the papers saying
it was all rot, and I began to wonder if----"

"My dear Gordon, don't you make any mistake about it. Lunn knows what he
is talking about. But old Public School men shroud their school life in
a mist of sentiment; so they forget what they really did. All they
remember is how they ragged the 'stinks' master, and pulled off the
Senior cricket cup. Why, when that new house master--oh, what's his
name, Lee? Well, at any rate, when he came to Lunn's house he was slowly
getting rid of undesirables for terms, actually for terms. Cayley was
not the only one who had to go, and, of course, no one thought of
anything but games. I got a schol. there from my prep., and I literally
had to live it down. It took me some time, too. We want a good deal of
improvement in this rusty old system."

So after all it was the system that was at fault, not Fernhurst....
Fairly contentedly he went back by the three-thirty from Waterloo; but
as he saw the evening sun steeping the gravel courts in shadows, and
watched the lights flickering behind the study panes, it came home to
him with a poignant vividness that Fernhurst, which should have been a
home of dreams and of ideas, had, by the inefficiency of a vacillating
system, become immersed in petty intrigues, and was filled with a
generation that was being taught to blind itself to the higher issues.

But in a moment he was caught up in the tear and bustle of an opening
term. There was the rush to the notice-board to see what dormitory he
was in, who were the prefects; then the hurried interview with the
Chief, and the inevitable Health certificate. The meeting of the
eight-ten from Exeter; prayers; the arrival of the last train; and
finally sleep. The hold of tradition is very strong; in a few moments
Gordon had flung aside his doubts and scruples. Arm-in-arm with Collins
he rolled down to the day-room to look at the new boys. There were
twelve of them in all, very frightened, very timid, huddled round the
day-room fire, wondering what was before them.

"Well, Caruthers, what do you think of that lot?" said Collins, as they
swaggered back again to the studies.

"Oh, not much; that fellow second from the left was not bad. What's his
name, oh yes, Morcombe. Believe me, he is some stuff."

"Oh, I thought him rather a washed-out specimen, but, I say, that fat
fellow looks rather a sport. You know, the man like a dormouse."

"Oh yes, that podgy lad. Morgan, he is Welsh, I know about him. He was
captain of the prep, last year at football--not a bad forward, I
believe. Oh, but there's Lovelace--Lovelace."

"Hullo, Caruthers."

In a huge brown coat, Lovelace charged across from the porter's lodge.
"Had any cricket? What price Middlesex--below Hants, rotten county--you
should watch Leicester now."

"Oh, dry up, Middlesex has had bad luck this year." The defeat at Lord's
by Worcester and Kent in the same week was a sore point with Gordon.

"Oh, did they? I call them rotten players. But, look here, who are
pres?"

"Oh, Tester, Betteridge, Clarke, Mansell, all the whole crowd."

"Good God, 'some' pres! Wait a sec. for me. I am only going to see Chief
for a second. I am going to get confirmed, I think. I heard you get off
some work for it. Half a sec."

Back to the old life again. Nothing was changed. The same talk, the same
interests, all the old things the same. Only he was altered. He felt as
if he wanted to stand on the Abbey tower, and shout aloud that the
School was wasting its opportunities, and was struggling blindly in the
dark, following will-o'-the-wisps. And yet, for all that, he would not
have Lovelace, or Mansell or any other of his friends the least bit
different. He did not know what he wanted. It was better to let them go
on as they were. As it had been, it would be. He could not do much, and
at the moment he decided that, whatever he might think or feel, he would
outwardly remain the same. The world was not going to look at his soul.
He would go on as he had begun, putting things behind him as he outgrew
them, and as they appeared childish to him. Only a very few should ever
see him as he really was. The rest would not understand him, they would
think him strange, unnatural; and he did not want that.

The first few days passed quickly. The entrance of Ferrers, the new
master, into the placid Fernhurst atmosphere caused a mild sensation.
The school first saw him walking across the courts after the masters'
meeting on the first day of term. His walk was a roll; he talked at the
top of his voice; his left arm sustained a pile of books; his right arm
gesticulated wildly.

"Good Gawd," said Tester, "what a bounder."

"Maybe, but he's the sort of man to wake up the school," said
Betteridge.

"Isn't it rather like applying a stomach-pump to a man who is only fit
for a small dose of Eno's Fruit Salt?"

"_Nous verrons._"

And in the bustle of a new term Ferrers was forgotten.

Gordon was in the Sixth, and its privileges were indeed sweet. He felt
very proud as he sat in the same room with Harding, a double-first, and
head of the House, and with Hazelton, the captain of the House. Though
it was an ordeal to go on to "con" before them, it was very magnificent
to roll down to the football field just before the game began without
attending roll.

"I say, Caruthers," Lovelace would yell across the changing-room, "do
buck up; it's nearly twenty-five to three, and roll is at a quarter to."

"I don't go to roll," came the lordly answer.

And he felt the eyes of admiring juniors fixed on him. It was sheer joy,
too, to wear the blue ribbon of the Sixth Form and to carry a
walking-stick; to stroll into shops that were to the rest of the school
out of bounds; to go to the armoury and the gym. after tea without a
pass. But it was in hall that the new position meant most.

While the rest of the house had to stay in their studies and make some
pretence of work, he would wander indolently down the passage and pay
calls. When he paused outside a study he heard the invariable sound of a
novel flying into the waste-paper basket, of a paper being shoved under
the table, or a cake being relegated to the window-seat. Then he came
in.

A curse always greeted him.

"Oh, damn you, Caruthers, I thought it was a prefect. Foster, hoist out
that cake; we were just having a meal."

He now had the freedom of studies that had before been to him as holy
places. Where once Clarke had dealt out justice with a heavy hand,
Tester and he sat before the fire discussing books and life. In the
games study, where once he trembled before the rage of Lovelace major,
he sat with Carter in hall preparing Thucydides. Steps would sound down
the passage, a knock on the door.

"Come in," bawled Carter.

"Please, Carter, may I speak to Smith?" a nervous voice would say. No
one could talk without leave from a prefect during hall.

"Yes; and shut the outer door," Carter answered, without looking round.
The prefectorial dignity seemed in a way to descend on Gordon; just then
life was very good. But there were times when he would feel an
uncontrollable impatience with the regime under which he lived. One of
these was on the second Sunday of term. It was Rogers' turn to preach,
and, as always, Gordon prepared himself for a twenty minutes' sleep till
the outburst of egoistic rhetoric was spent. But this time, about
half-way through, a few phrases floated through his mist of dreams and
caught his attention. Rogers was talking about the impending
confirmation service. With one hand on the lectern and the other
brandishing his pince-nez, as was his custom when he intended to be more
than usually impressive, he began the really vital part of the sermon.

"In the holidays there appeared as, I am sorry to say, I expect some of
you saw, a book pretending to deal with life at one of our largest
Public Schools. I say, pretending, because the book contains hardly a
word of truth. The writer says that the boys are callous about religious
questions and discuss matters which only grown-up people should mention
in the privacy of their own studies, and still more serious, the purport
of the book was to attack not only the boys but even the masters who so
nobly endeavour to inculcate living ideas of purity and Christianity. I
am only too well aware when I look round this chapel to-night--this
chapel made sacred by so many memories--that nearly every word of that
accusation is false. Yet perhaps there are times--in our mirth, shall we
say?--when we are engaged in sport, or genial merriment, when we are
inclined to treat sacred matters not with quite that reverence that we
ought. Perhaps----"

Rogers prosed on, epithet followed epithet, egotism and arrogance vied
with one another for predominance. The school lolled back in the oak
seats and dreamt of house matches, rags, impositions, impending rows. At
last the Chief gave out the final hymn. Into the cloisters the school
poured out, hustling, shouting, a stream of shadows. Contentedly Rogers
went back to his house, ate a large meal, and addressed a little homily
to the confirmation candidates in his house on the virtues of sincerity.

"What a pitiable state of mind old 'Bogus' must be in," sighed Tester,
when the scurry of feet along the passage had died down kind of quiet,
and he and Gordon were sitting in front of a typically huge School House
fire.

"I don't think I should call it a mind at all," muttered Gordon, who was
furious about the whole affair. "The man's an utter fool. When he is
told the truth he won't believe it, but stands there in the pulpit
rambling on, airing his rotten opinions. Good God, and that's the sort
of man who is supposed to be moulding the coming generation. Oh, it's
sickening."

"Well, my good boy, what more can you expect? The really brilliant men
don't take up schoolmastering; it is the worst paid profession there is.
Look at it, a man with a double-first at Oxford comes down to a place
like Fernhurst and sweats his guts out day and night for two hundred
pounds a year. Of course, the big men try for better things. Rogers is
just the sort of fool who would be a schoolmaster. He has got no brain,
no intellect, he loves jawing, and nothing could be more suitable for
him than the Third Form, the pulpit, and a commission in the O.T.C. But
perhaps he may have a few merits. I have not found any yet."

"Nor I. But, you know, some good men take up schoolmastering."

"Oh, of course they do. There is the Chief, for instance, a brilliant
scholar and _the_ authority on Coleridge. But he is an exception; and
besides, he did not stop an assistant master long; he got a
headmastership pretty soon. Chief is a splendid fellow. But I am talking
of the average man. Just look at our staff: a more fatuous set of fools
I never struck. All in a groove, all worshipping the same rotten tin
gods. I am always repeating myself, but I can't help it. Damn them all,
I say, they've mucked up my life pretty well; not one of them has tried
to help me. They sit round the common room fire and gas. Betteridge
swears Ferrers is a wonderful man; personally, I think he is an
unmitigated nuisance. But at any rate, he is the only man who ever
thinks for himself. Oh, what fools they all are."

For the rest of the evening Gordon and Tester cursed and swore at
everyone and everything, and on the whole felt better for having got it
off their chests. At any rate, next day Gordon was plotting a rag on an
enormous scale with Archie Fletcher; and in a House game assisted in the
severe routing of Rogers' house by seventy-eight points to nil. It takes
a good deal to upset a boy of fifteen for very long. And the long
evenings were a supreme happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

It must be owned that during hall Lovelace was rather unsociable. It was
not that he studied Greek or Latin; he had a healthy contempt for
scholastic triumphs; horse-racing was the real interest of his life.
"This is my work," he used to scoff, brandishing _The Sportsman_ in
Gordon's face. "I am not going to be a classic scholar, and I sha'n't
discover any new element, or such stuff as that. I am going on the turf.
This is my work."

For an hour every evening he laboured perseveringly at "his work" with
form books, _The Sportsman_, and huge account books. For every single
race he chose the runners, and laid imaginary bets; each night he made
out how much he had lost or made; and it must be confessed that if he
had really laid money on the horses, he would most certainly have done a
good term's work. By Christmas he was one hundred and seventeen pounds
up. This pursuit, of course, rather militated against his activities in
the class-room; but, as he said, "It was only Claremont, the old
Methuselah--and they had a damned good crib." Lovelace did his work from
seven to eight, and during this time Caruthers, who seemed to be in the
happy condition of never having any work to do at all, wandered round
the studies. And during his peregrinations many who had been to him
before merely units in a vast organisation detached themselves from the
rest, and became to him living characters; especially was this so with
Foster. He had played with Foster for two years in the Colts and in A-K
sides, but there had never been anything in common between them; their
interests had been far apart; neither stood for anything to the other.
But now, when Gordon found himself frequently dropping into Foster's
study for half-an-hour or so, he realised how many qualities Foster had.
Foster was strong-willed, obstinate almost, quite regardless of
tradition, in his own way slightly a rebel, and a past master in the art
of deceiving masters. There are two ways of making a master look a fool:
one is by introducing processions and coloured mice; the other by bowing
before him, making him think you are hard-working and industrious, and
all the while laughing at him behind his back. Gordon preferred the
former, because he had the love of battle; but Foster held to the second
method, in its way equally effective, and anyone who shook a spear
against authority was sure of sympathy from Gordon.

It was a great sight to see Foster bamboozle Claremont. With the
greatest regularity Foster was ploughed in his con., failed to score in
Latin prose, and knew nothing of his rep. And yet he never got an
imposition. He would point out how hard he worked; he often stayed
behind after school for a few seconds to ask Claremont a point in the
unseen. Such keenness was unusual, and Claremont could not connect it
with the slovenly productions that he had learnt to associate with
the name of Foster. For a long time it was a vast enigma. At
half term Foster's report consisted of one word, typically
Claremontian--"Inscrutable." But manners always win in the end. Foster
showed so much zeal, such an honest willingness to learn, that Claremont
finally classed him as a hard-working, keen, friendly, but amazingly
stupid boy. The Army class, which Foster honoured with his presence,
always did Latin and English with Claremont, and for over two years
Foster sat at the back of Claremont's room, scoring marks by singles
when others scored by tens. Yet his reports were invariably good; he
never had an imposition; he never needed to prepare a line of anything.

"Well, Foster," Claremont used to say, as he returned a prose entirely
besmirched with blue pencil, "I believe you really try, but the result
is most disheartening."

Foster always looked profoundly distressed; and at the end of the hour
he would go up, prose in hand, and ask why the subject of an active verb
could not be in the ablative. Two minutes later he would emerge with a
broad grin on his face, and murmur to whoever might be near that
Claremont was "a most damnable ass, but none the less a pleasant
creature." And in the evening hall he and Gordon would discuss how one
or other of them had advanced a step further into the enemy's country,
and taken one more pawn in the gigantic game of bluff. They were both in
their own fashion working to the same end.

But at this point the serene calm of Gordon's life was suddenly rudely
interrupted by an incursion on the part of "the Bull." About three weeks
after the term had begun the Colts played their first game, and like
most sides at the beginning of a season, they were terribly
disorganised. Lovelace, who had been in under-sixteen teams for years,
was the Senior Colts badge and was captain. Burgoyne led the scrum; he
was a rough diamond, if indeed a diamond at all, and was not too popular
with the side. Foster was scrum half; Collins and Gordon were in the
scrum. It was really quite a decent side, but this particular afternoon
it started shakily. "The Bull" raged so madly and cursed so furiously
that the side became petrified with funk, and could do nothing right.

Once and only once did the Colts look like scoring, and then Lovelace
knocked on the easiest pass right between the posts.

"Never did I see anything like it," bellowed Buller. "For eighteen years
I have coached Fernhurst; and before that I coached Oxford and
Gloucestershire; and I am not going to stand this. Lovelace, you are not
fit to be captain of a pick-up, let alone a school Colts side. Burgoyne,
skipper the side. Now then, two minutes more to half-time; do something,
Colts."

The Colts did do something. They let the other side score twice. At
half-time Buller poured forth a superb torrent of rhetoric. And suddenly
there came over Gordon an uncontrollable desire to laugh. "The Bull"
looked so funny, with his hair ruffled, and his eyes flaming with wrath.
Gordon had to look the other way, or he would have burst into paroxysms
of laughter. When one is overexcited and worried, hysteria is not far
absent. Gordon turned away.

Then suddenly he felt a terrific assault on his backside. Someone had
booted him most fiercely, and turning round he saw the face of Buller
still more distorted with rage.

"Never saw such rudeness! Here am I trying to coach the rottenest side
that has ever disgraced a Fernhurst ground, and you haven't the manners
to listen to me. Good man, are you so perfect that you can afford to pay
no attention to me? For heaven's sake, don't make your footer like your
cricket, the slackest thing in the whole of Fernhurst. Come on, we'll go
on with this game."

For ten more minutes "the Bull" watched the Colts making feverish
endeavours to do anything right. But his powers of endurance were not
equal to the strain.

"Here," he shouted, as Harding was going up to change after
superintending a pick-up, "you might referee for about ten more minutes
here, will you? I can't bear the sight of the little slackers any
longer."

A sigh of relief went up as the figure of Buller rolled out through the
field gate. Strangely enough, the Colts did rather better after this,
and Collins scored a really quite fine try. But the side left the field
glowing with resentment. None more than Gordon and Lovelace.

"What does the fool mean by making a little ass like Burgoyne captain?"
complained Gordon. "Dirty little beast, who does not wash or shave. And
he hacked me up the bottom, too, the swine. I'm getting a bit sick of
'The Bull.'"

"So am I. What we really want is my brother back again. He kept him in
order all right. My brother was a strong man, and did not stand any rot
from Buller or anyone else."

"Hullo, you two, you look about fed up! What's the row?"

They turned round; Mansell was coming up behind them. Lovelace burst out
perfervidly:

"It's that fool Buller. He cursed the Colts all round, and he made
Burgoyne captain instead of me, and he hacked Gordon's bottom, and told
him he had no manners. Believe me, we have had a jolly afternoon."

"And I suppose he said that he had captained Oxford, Cambridge, New
Zealand and the Fiji Islands, and that in his whole career he had never
seen anything like it."

"Oh yes, he fairly rolled out his qualifications, like a maid-servant
applying for a post."

"Oh, well, never mind," said Mansell; "he is a good chap, really, only
he can't keep his temper. He'll probably apologise to you both before
the end of the day. I remember Ferguson said once: 'All men are fools
and half of them are bloody fools.' Not so bad for Ferguson that! Cheer
up!"

"Yes; but, damn it all, it is a bit thick," said Lovelace. "And a tick
like Burgoyne to boot."

As they were changing, a fag from Buller's made a nervous entry; he
looked very lost, but finally summoned up enough courage to ask
Davenport if he knew where Caruthers was.

"Yonder, sirrah, lurking behind the piano."

The fag came up.

"Oh--I say--er--Caruthers. 'The Bull'--er, I mean Mr Buller wants to see
you as soon as you are changed."

"Right," said Gordon.

"I said so," said Mansell; "he will weep over you and shake your hand
like a long-lost brother; and after you will follow Lovelace, who will
once more lead the lads with white jerseys and red dragons to victory
against Osborne. Good-bye; you needn't stop, you know," he informed the
fag, who was giving a stork-like performance, by gyrating first on one
foot then on another.

"That means I shall miss my tea," said Gordon.

"I fear so," answered Mansell. "I don't really think you can expect 'the
Bull' to receive you with crumpets and muffins and other goodly
delights. Of course to-morrow is Sunday; you might manage to work a
supper-party, but don't rely on it. Come and tell me the result of your
chat; you will find me in my study; don't knock; just walk in; you are
always welcome."

As Gordon walked across the courts to Buller's study he had not the
slightest doubt as to how the interview would end. "The Bull" was often
like this. Only yesterday Foster had told him some long yarn of how he
had beaten a lad in Christy's and had hit his hand by mistake; and to
kick a person was, after all, a far more undignified method of assault.
It was almost actionable. Quite contentedly he knocked on the door and
went in. He was not, however, welcomed with open arms. "The Bull" stood
with his back to the door, facing the fireplace, his hands behind his
back. He did not speak for a minute or so. Gordon wondered if it would
be correct to take a chair. "The Bull" broke the silence.

"Well, Caruthers, are you sorry for what happened this afternoon?"

This took Gordon by surprise: it was hardly the interview he had been
led to expect. He murmured "Yes, sir" rather indistinctly.

"Are you, though? Because if you are going to come in here and say you
are sorry, when you are not, simply to smooth things over, you would be
a pretty rotten sort of fellow."

"Yes, sir." Gordon had recovered his self-control and was ready for a
fight.

"Well, this is the way I look at things. I am here to coach Fernhurst
sides; it is my life's work. I love Fernhurst, and I have devoted all my
energy and care to help my old school, and it seems to me that you are
trying--you and Lovelace between you--to ruin my work and stand in my
light. Both of you as individuals are well worth your places in both
under-sixteen sides, football and cricket. As individuals, I say; and
you think you are indispensable to the side, and that we can't do
without you. You can afford to laugh when you miss catches, and not pay
attention to me when I am trying to give you the benefits of my
experience."

"I heard every word----"

"Will you kindly wait till I have finished. Fernhurst has done very well
in the past without you and Lovelace, and five years hence it will have
to do without you, and I am not going to have you interfere with the
present. You hate me, I dare say; from all I hear of you, you hate my
house; and you stir up sedition against me. You show the others how
much you care for me. And you are both people who have some influence in
your house, and wherever you are, for that matter. And are you using it
for the good of Fernhurst? You ruined all my pleasure in the cricket
Colts; but I don't care about myself. All I care for is Fernhurst. Why
did I stop Lovelace being captain? Because I want a man who is going to
back me up, who is going to play for the side and not for himself. And I
tell you I am going to drop Lovelace; he plays for himself; he gives
rotten passes; he upsets combination; and I won't have him on my side."

Gordon could stand it no longer.

"Sir, I am not going to hold a brief for myself. But you have not
treated Lovelace fairly. Last year on a trial game you kicked him out of
the side, only to find in a week that you could not do without him. And
to-day, sir, on a trial game you deposed him from the captaincy."

"Do you mean to say that after playing Rugby football for twenty-five
years I don't know what I am talking about?"

Gordon saw he had said too much.

"And I am not talking about his play, I am talking about his general
attitude. Now, didn't you two rag about a good deal at the nets last
term?"

"Well, sir, it was hardly ragging, sir----"

"Oh, hardly ragging.... There must be no ragging.... If we are going to
turn out good sides we must be in dead earnest the whole time. You
imagine you are loyal to Fernhurst. My old sides followed me implicitly.
I loved them, and they loved me. We worked together for Fernhurst; now,
are you doing your best for Fernhurst?"

Gordon was overwhelmed. He wanted to tell "the Bull" how mistaken he
was; that he and Lovelace did not hate him at all; that they were doing
their best; but that their sense of humour was at times too strong. But
it was useless. "The Bull" would not give him a chance. And he had
learnt from Mansell and Tester that "the Bull" could only see one point
of view at a time. And yet he was filled with an immense admiration for
this man who thought only of Fernhurst, who had worked for Fernhurst all
his life, who made Fernhurst's interests the standard for every
judgment and action. There was something essentially noble in so
unswerving a devotion. If only his love of Fernhurst had not made him so
complete an egoist.

"Well, what is it to be, Caruthers?" Buller went on. "Are you going to
work with me or against me? When you first came you were keen and
willing. You are still keen, but you think too much of yourself now; you
imagine you know more than I do. Is all this going to stop? Are we going
to work together?"

There was nothing to be gained by arguing.

"Sir, I shall do my best to."

"Well, I hope so, Caruthers. It is not for my own sake I mind; you see
that, don't you? It is Fernhurst that matters. We must all do our best
for Fernhurst. I hope we sha'n't have any more trouble, you will be a
power in the school some day, we must work together--for Fernhurst."

"Yes, sir."

Gordon walked to the door; as he put his hand on the knob he paused for
a second, then turned round.

"Good-night, sir."

"Good-night, Caruthers."

He was out in the street again. There was a tremendous noise going on in
one of the Buller's studies. From the courts came sounds of barge
football. He did not feel as if he wanted to go and discuss everything
with Mansell for a minute or so. Slowly he wandered round the shrubbery,
past the big school, past the new buildings into the Abbey courtyard. He
sat down on a seat and tried to think. A girl came and sat beside him
and smiled at him invitingly. He took no notice. She sat there a minute
or so, then got up and walked off stiffly. The Abbey clock boomed out
the quarter to six. In a minute or so he would have to go back to tea.
He was worried. He liked "the Bull," admired him intensely; and yet "the
Bull" thought he hated him, thought him disloyal. Why could not Buller
keep his temper? Why must he rush to conclusions without weighing the
evidence? And "the Bull" was such a splendid man; he was one of the very
few masters Gordon respected in the least. He wanted "the Bull" to like
him. And then there was Lovelace. Why couldn't "the Bull" try to see
life as Lovelace saw it? Why must he want everyone to share the same
views as he, look at everything through the same spectacles? It wouldn't
have mattered if he was merely an insignificant busybody like Christy.
He was such a splendid fellow, such a man. It was all such a pity. And
yet he realised that he would have to try and bend his will to that of
Buller; he must endeavour to work side by side with him. It would not do
to have Fernhurst split up into two camps. In the past he had thought he
was doing his best; but "the Bull" wanted absolute subservience. And
what "the Bull" wanted he usually got.

Lovelace, however, took quite a different view. He was mad with Buller.

"Damn it all, it is not the first time the swine has done the dirty on
me. Look at the way he kicked me out of the side last year."

"I know, that's what I told him. And he owned that both of us as
individuals were worth our places, but that we upset the side and rotted
about, and were always up against him."

"Silly ass the man must be. We are keen enough, aren't we? But I damned
well don't see why we should treat footer and cricket like a chapel
service. We can laugh in form if anything funny happens; then why the
hell shouldn't we laugh on the field? And, my God, Caruthers, you did
look an ass when you missed that catch." Lovelace roared with laughter
at the thought of it. "The way you juggled with it, and old Bull tearing
his hair, oh, it was damned funny."

"But, you see, 'the Bull' thinks games are everything, and, damn it all,
they are the things that really matter. We each may have our own private
interests. But games are the thing. Only personally I don't see why we
should not see the funny side of them. To 'the Bull' a dropped catch is
an everlasting disgrace."

"Oh, let 'the Bull' go to blazes, I am sick of him. If he wants to kid
me out of the Colts, he can; and I'll go and enjoy myself on House
games. But look here, there is a Stoics debate to-night and it's nearly
roll-time. You had better go down and bag two seats."

The Stoics society was of elastic proportions, including everyone above
IV. A, for a life subscription of sixpence, and during the winter term
it held meetings every other week in the School House reading-room. The
actual membership was over a hundred, but rarely more than fifty
attended, and of those who went only fifty per cent. paid any attention
to the proceedings. The rest looked on it as a good excuse for getting
off work. Three quarters of the society were from the School House, and
these arrived with deck chairs, cushions and a novel, and thoroughly
enjoyed themselves. Christy was the president, and this was to a great
extent the reason for so general an atmosphere of boredom and
indifference. For Christy was the typical product of conventionality and
pharisaism. He was so thoroughly contented with anything he
superintended that he refused to believe any improvement was possible.
But this year Betteridge was honorary secretary and had tried to infuse
a little life into the society. The subject for the first debate of the
term was "Classical and Modern Education," and Ferrers was going to
speak for the modern side. Ferrers was always writing to the papers, and
was already well known in the common room as a feverish orator. A good
deal had been rumoured about him, and the school were rather anxious to
hear him. There was quite a large audience. At about twenty past seven
Christy came in, and everyone stood up till he had sat down. Burgess was
to open the debate for the classics, and Christy was to second him.
Ferrers and Pothering, the head of Claremont's, were for the moderns.
The debate was supposed to open at twenty past the hour. But Ferrers had
not arrived. There was an awkward pause. At last Christy got up.

"I really think it is useless to wait any longer for Mr Ferrers. We will
proceed. The motion before the House is: That in the opinion of this
House a classical education is more efficacious than a modern one. I
will call on Mr Burgess to open the motion."

There was a little clapping as Burgess got up with a customary display
of conceit. He ran his hand through his hair and took a glance at his
notes, and then began with the blasé air of Mercury addressing a
Salvation Army meeting.

"Of course those in favour of modern education will defend themselves on
the grounds of general utility. They will point out the uselessness of
Greek in business; all I can say to that is that the Public School man
should be too much of a gentleman to wish to succeed in business. He
should aim higher; he should follow the ideals set before him by the
classics. Nearly all the poets and politicians of to-day are Public
School men; nearly all ..."

He went on rolling off absurdly dogmatic statements that were based
solely on ignorance and arrogance. He was of the Rogers' school of
oratory. He believed that a sufficient amount of conceit and
self-possession would carry anyone through. About half-way through his
speech he was interrupted by the approach of a whirlwind. There was a
sound of feet on the stone passage, something crashed against the door,
and in rolled Ferrers in a most untidy blue suit, a soft collar, an
immense woollen waistcoat, and three books under his arm. These he
slammed on the table, in company with his cap.

"Awfully sorry, Christy, old fellow ... been kept ... new lot of books
from Methuen's ... had to take one up to my wife ... rather ill, you
know.... Fire away, Burgess."

All his remarks were flung off in jerks at a terrific rate. The abashed
orator concluded rather prematurely and rather wildly; such an incursion
was most irregular and very perplexing.

"I will now call on Mr Ferrers to speak."

Up leapt Ferrers and began at once firing off his speech at the pace of
a cinematograph. He was full of mannerisms. He would clap his hand over
his eyes when he wanted to think of something, and would then spread it
out straight before him. It was rather dangerous to get close. He would
pick up one of his books and shake it in the face of Christy.

"This is what Mackenzie says ... in _Sinister Street_ ... fine book ...
smashes up everything, shows the shallowness of our education ... this
is what he says...."

After he had read a few words, he would bang the book down on the table
and continue pouring forth inextricable anacolutha. Everyone was
listening; they had never heard anything like this before. It was a
revelation. Christy chewed his finger-nails. Burgess assumed an air of
Olympian content. The flood of rhetoric rolled on:

"It is like this, you see; the classical education makes you imitate all
the time ... Greek Prose like Sophocles ... Latin Verse like
Petronius.... I don't know if I have got the names right ... probably
not ... never could stick doing it. There is no free thought. Classics
men do very well in the Foreign Offices, but they can't think.... What
do classics do in the literary world? Nothing. Bennett, Lloyd George,
Wells--the best men never went to a Public School.... We want
originality; and the classics don't give it. They are all right for a
year or so to give a grounding of taste ... though they don't give that
to the average boy ... but no more. What did I learn from
classics?--only to devise a new way of bringing a crib into form.... Is
that an education? No, we want French, jolly few cribs to be got of
Daudet that are any use to the Lower Fifth ... Maths, that's the stuff
... makes them think.... Riders ... get them out your own way--not
Vergil's way or Socrates' way--your own way--originality...."

In this strain he talked for a quarter of an hour, and held the audience
spellbound. He had really interested them. Here was something new,
something worth listening to. He was received with a roar of clapping.

After his speech everything else fell flat. Christy made one or two
super-subtle remarks which no one understood. There was nothing left for
Pothering to say; the motion was then put before the House and the
debate developed into a farce. Idiot after idiot got up and made some
infantile qualification of an earlier statement--all of them talked off
the point. So much so, in fact, that Turner was beginning a tale of a
fight he had had with a coster down Cheap Street when Christy called him
to order.

Gordon at once rose in protest.

"Gentlemen, I address the Chair. It is preposterous that Mr Turner
should have been refused a hearing. We may have lost what would perhaps
have thrown new light on the subject. Doubtless he had carefully
selected this particular anecdote out of a life, alas, too full of
excitement" (a roar greeted this, Christy had beaten Turner that very
morning for eating chocolates in German), "with the express view of
pointing out the superiority of the classics. Doubtless the rough in
question, not knowing the custom in Homeric contests, had failed to
propitiate the gods, while he, the narrator, had rushed into Back Lane
behind Mother Beehive's charming old-world residence, and having offered
a prayer to Mars, waited for his burly antagonist in the darkness, and
as the vile man, clearly one of St Paul's 'god haters'" (that time the
Sixth were reading the "Romans") "thundered by, he smote him with a
stone above the eye, and left him discomfited and, like OEdipus, well
nigh blind. Here we see----"

But the meeting never found out what they really saw. Gordon was called
to order, and sat down amid a tumult of applause. One or two more
speakers brought fresh evidence to bear on the subject; and then there
was the division. The moderns won by a huge majority. As the rabble
passed into the passage Gordon heard Ferrers say to Christy in his most
patronising manner:

"Rather wiped the ground with you, didn't we?... Well, never mind, you
stood no earthly.... Days of the classics are over. Still, you fought
well.... Third line of defence--_ad triarios_.... I remember a bit of my
classics."

Gordon was borne out on the stream past the matron's room to the end of
the passage, and the rest of Ferrers's speech was lost.

From this day the Stoics underwent a complete change. The whole nature
of the society was altered. Ferrers was so absolutely different from
anything that a master had appeared to be from time immemorial. He was
essentially of the new generation, an iconoclast, a follower of Brooke
and Gilbert Cannan, heedless of tradition, probing the root of
everything. At the end of the term Christy resigned his presidency. He
could not keep pace with the whirlwind Ferrers.

"You know, Caruthers," said Tester in second hall, "whatever our
personal feelings may be, we have got to allow that this man Ferrers has
got something in him."

"Something! Why, I thought him simply glorious. Here he is bursting in
on the prude conventionality of Fernhurst full of new ideas, smashing up
the things that have been accepted unquestionably for years. By Jove,
the rest of the staff must hate him."

"There was a thing by him in the _A.M.A._ the other day that caused
considerable annoyance, I believe. I didn't read the thing myself, but I
heard 'the Bull' saying it was disgraceful that a Fernhurst master
should be allowed to say such things. I suppose he said something
against games."

"Well, damn it all, if he did, he is in the wrong. Games are absolutely
necessary. What on earth would the country be like without them?"

"A damned sight better, I should think."

"Oh, don't be an ass. Just look at the fellows who don't play games,
Rudd and Co. What wrecks they are! Utterly useless. We could do
perfectly well without them. Could not we now?"

At this point Betteridge strolled in very leisurely. Authority had made
him a dignified person. The days of ragging Trundle seemed very distant.
He did not go about with Mansell so much now. He was more often with
Carter and Harding.

"Betteridge, come in and sit down," said Tester; "we were arguing on the
value of games. Don't you agree with me that it's about time a man like
Ferrers made a sensible attack on them?"

"Yes; though I doubt if Ferrers is quite the man to do it. He is such a
revolutionary. He would want to smash everything at once. A gradual
change is what is needed. I look at it like this. Games are all right in
themselves. A man must keep himself physically fit; but games are only a
means to an end. The object of all progress is to get a clear,
clean-sighted race, intellectual and broadminded. And I think physical
fitness is a great help in the production of a clear, clean mind. The
very clever man who is weak bodily is so apt to become a decadent; and
because he himself can't stand any real exertion, despises those who
can. Games are necessary as a means to an end. But Buller and all the
rest of the lot think games are the actual end. Look at the way a man
with his footer cap is idealised and worshipped. He may be an utter
rake; probably is, most likely he has no brains at all. If he ever had
them, he soon ceased to use them, and devotes all his energies to
athletic success. Why should we worship him? Merely because he can kick
a rotten football down a rotten field. It is this worship of athletics
that is so wrong."

"Oh, you are talking rot," burst out Gordon angrily; "the English race
is the finest in the whole world and has been bred on footer and
cricket. I own the Public School system has its faults; but not because
of games. It stamps out personality, tries to make types of us all,
refuses to allow us to think for ourselves. We have to read and pretend
to like what our masters tell us to. No freedom. But games are all
right. We all have our own interests. Poetry is my chief one at present.
But that doesn't blind me to the fact that games are what count. Where
should we be without them? And I damn well hope the House is not going
to get into a finicky, affected state of mind, despising them because
they are too slack to play them. That's why you hate them, Betteridge,
because you are no good at them. My great ambition is to be captain of
this House and win the Three Cock. Of course the worship of sport is all
right. Our fathers worshipped it, and damned good fellows they were,
too. I can't stand you when you talk like this. I am going to find
Lovelace; he has got a bit of sense."

The door slammed noisily behind him.

"He is very young," said Betteridge.

"Yes; and full of hopes," murmured Tester. "It is a pity to think he
will have to be so soon disillusioned. Very little remains the same for
long. Pleasure is very evanescent."

Betteridge looked at him a little curiously.

"I should not have thought you would have found that out," he said.

Tester shrugged.

"Oh, well, you know, even the fastest of us get tired of our licence at
times. Byron would have become a Benedictine monk if he had lived to be
fifty."

Betteridge smiled, and picking up a Browning from the table sank into an
easy-chair to read.

Tester remained looking into the fire. What a fool he had been to give
himself away just then. It was his great object never to let anyone see
into his soul. He had once shown Caruthers what he was, because he could
not bear to see a person of ability wasting himself for want of high
ideals. He had tried to show him that there was something above the
commonplace routine of life. And in a way he had succeeded. Caruthers
often came in in the evenings to discuss poetry with him, and those were
some of the happiest moments of his life. He was not sorry that he had
poured out his heart to him. Of course Caruthers was still young, was
still under the influence of environment. But in time he was sure to
realise that athletics were not the aim of life, but only a tavern on
the wayside, where we may rest for a little, or which we may pass by,
just as our fancy takes us. If Caruthers saw this at last, he would then
have done at least something not altogether vain.

For, after all, what a useless life his had been. The road he had
travelled seemed white with the skeletons of broken hopes. In the
glowing coals he saw the pageant of his past unroll itself. He had never
been quite the normal person. His father was a minor poet, and for as
long as he could remember his house had been full of literary people.
Arthur Symons and George Moore had often discussed the relations between
art and life across his fireplace. Yeats had told him stories of strange
Irish myths; Thomas Hardy had read to him once or twice. He had spent
his whole life with men who thought for themselves, who had despised the
conventions of their day, and he himself had ceased to believe in
anything except what personal experience taught him. He had resolved to
find out things for himself. And what, after all, had he discovered?
Little except the vanity of mortal things. In his friendship with
Stapleton he had for a term or so found a temporary peace, but it had
not been for long. As soon as he achieved anything it seemed to collapse
before him. He had at times sought to forget his failures in blind fits
of passion, but when the fire was burnt out the old world was the old
world yet! In books alone he found a lasting comfort. The school looked
on him as "quite a decent chap, awfully fast, of course, doesn't care a
damn what he does, just lives to enjoy himself and have a damned good
time." He smiled at the irony of it all. If they only knew! But they
could never know. He had made a mistake in saying so much to Betteridge;
he must not do it again. He must go on probing everything to discover
where, if anywhere, was that complete peace, that perfect beauty that he
had set out to find. In the meantime the destiny of his life would
unfold itself. He would follow where his inclinations led him.

The evening bell broke into his reverie.

He stretched himself.

"Come on, Betteridge. Let us have a rag to-night."

"Oh, I don't think I will, I am rather sleepy." Betteridge was aware of
his position. To Tester being a prefect signified very little.

That night Carter's dormitory was submitted to a most fearful raid.
Water flowed everywhere. Two sheets were ripped and a jug broken. Rudd's
bed was upset on the floor with Rudd underneath.

"By Jove, Caruthers," said Lovelace, from Harding's well-behaved
dormitory, "that man Tester is some lad."

And Gordon thought, as he saw him laying about him full lustily with a
pillow, that all his talk about games must be merely a damned
affectation. He was really like any ordinary fellow.

When peace was at last restored, and he had led home his victorious
forces, Tester laughed quietly to himself, as he watched the moonlight
falling across a huge pool of water. He had played his part pretty well.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the rest of the term life flowed easily with Gordon. There were no
further rows with "the Bull"; in fact their row seemed, for a time at
any rate, to have brought them closer together. Both seemed anxious to
be friends with one another, and on the football field Gordon's play
gave really very little cause for complaint. For this term his football
reached his highest level. In following seasons he played good games on
occasions, but he never equalled the standard he set himself in the
Colts. It was one of Gordon's chief characteristics that he usually did
well while others failed, and this term the Colts for some reason or
other never properly got together. The side kept on being altered. For
a week after the row Lovelace was kept out of the side; but it was soon
obvious that his presence was absolutely necessary.

"What did I say," said Gordon. "You see, 'the Bull's' madness doesn't
last for long. He got a bit fed up with you, Lovelace, so he made
himself imagine your football was bad. He can always make himself think
what he likes."

"Yes; but it is rather a nuisance," Mansell remarked, "when you realise
it is always House men who have to do the Jekyll and Hyde business."

"Good Lord! Mansell, you are becoming literary," laughed Gordon. "How
did you hear of Jekyll and Hyde?"

"Claremont has been reading the thing on Sunday mornings; not so bad for
a fool like Stevenson. It rather reminded me of _The Doctor's Double_,
by Nat Gould; only, of course, it is not half so good."

"No, that is a fact," said Lovelace. "Nat Gould is the finest author
alive. I read some stuff in a paper the other day about books being true
to life. Well, you could not get anything more true than _The Double
Event_; and race-horsing is the most important thing in life, too. I
sent up the other day for six of his books; they ought to be here
to-morrow."

"Well, for God's sake, don't bring them in here," said Gordon, "there is
enough mess as it is with _The Sportsmans_ of the last month trailing
all over the place."

"Oh, have some sense, man; you don't know what literature is."

Gordon subsided. All his new theories of art collapsed very easily
before the honest Philistinism of Lovelace and Mansell; for he was not
quite sure of his own views himself. He loved poetry, because it seemed
to express his own emotions so adequately. Byron's "Tempest-anger,
Tempest-mirth" was as balm to his rebellious soul. Rebellion was, in
fact, at this time almost a religion with him. Only a few days back he
had discovered Byron's sweeping confession of faith, "I have simplified
my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments," and
he found it a most self-satisfying doctrine. That was what his own life
should be. He would fight against these masters with their
old-fashioned and puritanic notions; he would be the preacher of the new
ideas. It was all very crude, very impossible, but at the back of this
torrid violence lay an honest desire to better conditions, tempered, it
must be owned, with an ambition to fill the middle of the stage himself.
In his imagination he became a second Byron. He saw, or thought he saw,
the mistakes of the system under which he lived; and--without pausing to
consider its merits--wished to sweep away the whole foundation into the
sea, and to build upon some illusory basis a new heaven and new earth.
He had yet to read the essay in which Matthew Arnold says that "Byron
shattered, inevitably shattered himself against the black rock of
British Philistinism." He was at present full of hope. The Poetry of
Revolt coloured his imagination to such a degree that he saw himself
standing alone and triumphant amid the wreck of the world he had
overthrown. He was always protesting that Swinburne's finest line was in
the _Hymn to Proserpine_:

    "_I neither kneel nor adore them, but standing look to the end._"

It raises a wonderful picture to a young imagination: Swinburne standing
on a mountain, looking across the valley of years in which man fights
feverishly for little things, in which nations rise to empire for a
short while, in which constitutions totter and fall, looking to where,
far away behind the mountains, flickered the faint white streamers of
the dawn. Oh, he was very young; very conceited too, no doubt; but is
there anyone who, having lived longer, having seen many bright dreams go
down, having been disillusioned, and having realised that he is but a
particle in an immense machine, would not change places with Gordon, and
see life once more roseflushed with impossible loyalties?

       *       *       *       *       *

In its passage school life seems very long; in retrospect it appears but
a few hours. There is such a sameness about everything. A few incidents
here and there stand out clear, but, as a whole, day gives place to day
without differing much from those that have gone before it. We do not
realise this till we can look back on them from a distance; but it is
none the less true.

In the Sixth Gordon's scholastic career took the way of all other
fugitive things. It had once given promise of leading somewhere, of
resulting in something, but it wanted more than ordinary perseverance to
overcome the atmosphere of the deep-rooted objection to work that
overhung all the proceedings in the Sixth Form room. And that
perseverance Gordon lamentably lacked.

The Lower Sixth was mainly under the supervision of Mr Finnemore; and it
was a daily wonder to Gordon why a person so obviously unfitted should
have been entrusted with so heavy a responsibility. Finally he came to
the conclusion that the last headmaster had thought that the Sixth Form
would probably make less fun and take fewer liberties with him than any
other form, and that when the present Chief had come he had not had the
heart to remove a school institution. Mr Finnemore was an oldish man,
getting on for sixty, and his hair was white. He had a long moustache,
his clothes carried the odour of stale tobacco, his legs seemed hung on
to his body by hooks that every day appeared less likely to maintain the
weight attached to them. His face wore a self-depreciatory smile. He was
most mercilessly "ragged."

The day when he took exams in big school will never be forgotten. Gordon
was then in V.A. The Sixth, the Army class and the Upper Fifth were all
supposed to be preparing for some future paper. All three forms had, of
course, nothing to do. The Chief was in London.

At four-fifteen Finnemore was observed to be moving in his strange way
across the courts. With an almost suspicious quietness the oak desks
were filled.

"What are you doing to-day, Lane?" Finnemore asked the head of the
school.

"I believe, sir, we are supposed to be preparing something."

"Ah, excellent; excellent, a very good opportunity for putting in some
good, hard work. Excellent! Excellent!"

For about three minutes there was peace. Then Ferguson lethargically
arose. He strolled up the steps to the dais, and leaning against the
organ loft began to speak:

"Gentlemen, as not only the Sixth Form, but also the Army class and
Upper Fifth, are gathered here this afternoon with no very ostensible
reason for work, I suggest that we should hold, on a small scale, a
Bacchic festival. This will, of course, be not only entertaining but
also instructive. 'Life consists in knowing where to stop, and going a
little further,' once said H.H. Monro. Let us follow his advice--and
that of the Greeks. First, let us shove the desks against the wall and
make ready for the dance."

It had all been prepared beforehand. In a few minutes several hundred
books had been dropped, several ink-pots lay smashed on the floor. There
was a noise of furious thunder, and at last all the desks somehow got
shoved against the wall.

Finnemore was "magnificently unprepared." He lay back nervously in his
chair, fingering his moustache.

"This must now cease," he said.

"No, really, sir" protested Ferguson; "everything is all right. Mr
Carter, will you oblige us by playing the piano. I myself will conduct."

The floor of the big school is made of exquisitely polished oak, and is
one of the glories of Fernhurst. It was admirably suited for the dance
which within five minutes was in progress. It was a noble affair.
Finnemore sat back in his chair powerless, impotent; Carter hammered out
false notes on a long-suffering piano. Ferguson beat time at the top of
the dais, with a pen gently waving between his fingers, as gracefully as
the pierrots of Aubrey Beardsley play with feathers. Down below heavy
feet pretended to dance to an impossible tune. Someone began a song,
others followed suit, and before long the austere sanctity of the room
was violated by the flat melodies of _Hitchy-Koo_. It was indeed an act
of vandalism. But the rioters had forgotten that they were distinctly
audible from without. In the Chief's absence they had thought a row out
of the question.

Unfortunately, however, "the Bull's" class-room was only a few yards
off. When first he heard the strains of revelling borne upwards he
thought it must be the choir practising for the Christmas concert. But
it did not take long for him to appreciate that such a supposition was
out of the question. The noise was deafening. He could hardly hear
himself talk; investigation must be made. He got up and walked out into
the courts, made his way to the big school, and opening the door
revealed the scene that has just been described. For a second or so he
stood speechless. He felt much as Moses might have felt, if he had seen
a tribe of Gentiles invading the Holy of Holies. Then his voice rang
out:

"What is the meaning of this unseemly disturbance?"

A sudden silence fell over the revellers, as in Poe's story of the red
death when the stranger entered the room.

Buller looked around.

"My form, the Army class, will follow me."

Disconsolately his form found their books and moved out of the room,
fully aware that they would shortly have to pay full price for their
pleasure. Over the remainder there fell a chill feeling of uncertainty.
A few spasmodic efforts were made to carry on, but the light-heartedness
was gone. The laughter was forced. Finally noise subsided into
whispering, and whispering into silence and the scratching of pens.

There loomed before the Sixth Form visions of a very unpleasant
interview with the Chief, and their expectations were not disappointed.
The whole form had to stay back on the last day and write out a Georgic.
Only the Fifth got off scot-free. Macdonald was told to deal with them,
but he saw the humour of the affair too strongly to do anything but
laugh.

"These Cambridge men--can't keep order. No good at all. Can't think why
the Chief took him." And then, after a pause; "I wish I had been there!"

The result of this was that for the future Finnemore was treated with a
little more respect. The Sixth decided that dances did not pay, and so
contented themselves with less noisy but little less aggravating
amusements. For instance, Finnemore's hatred of Browning was a byword;
so one day the entire form decided to learn _The Lost Leader_ for
repetition. For a while Finnemore bore it patiently, but when a burly
chemistry specialist walked up to within two feet of him and began to
bawl so loudly that his actual words were distinguishable in the School
House studies, the master covered his face with his hands and murmured:
"Oh, heaven spare me this infliction!"

On another occasion Betteridge walked quietly up to him, handed him a
Shelley, and without any warning suddenly shrieked out:

    "He hath outsoared the shadow of our night."

Finnemore looked at him sadly: "My dear Betteridge, so early in the
morning!"

By many little things his life was made wretched for him. But yet he
would not have chosen any other profession. He had once started life
with very high hopes, but had discovered that the world is not in
sympathy with men of ideas who do not prophesy smooth things. And so at
an early age he found himself disappointed in all his personal aims. It
seemed that he had to harbour only the simplest wish to find it denied.
And then he realised that for the loss of youth there can be no
compensation, and that in youth alone happiness could be found. And so
he had decided to spend his life in company with high hopes and smiling
faces. There were times when an immense sadness came over him, when he
thought that disillusionment was waiting for so many of them and that
there were few who would "carry their looks or their truth to the
grave." But on the whole he was as happy as his temperament could allow
him, and Gordon, although in a sense he was the very antithesis of all
that he admired most, found himself strangely in sympathy with his new
master. One day the subject for an essay was "Conventionality," and
Gordon unpacked his torrid soul in a wild abuse of all existing
governments. After he had written it, he got rather nervous about its
reception, but it was returned marked _a_-, and Finnemore had written at
the bottom: "We all think like this when we are young; and, after all,
it is good to be young."

Gordon felt that he had found someone who understood him.

Finnemore lived in two rooms over the masters' common room, which had
from time immemorial been the possession of the Sixth Form tutor, and in
the evenings when Gordon used to have his prose corrected Finnemore
would often ask him to stay behind and have some coffee. Then the two
would talk about poetry and art and life till the broken bell rang out
its cracked imperious summons. Finnemore had once published a small book
of verses, a copy of which he gave to Gordon. They had in them all the
frail pathos of a wasted career; most of them were songs of spurned
affection, and inside was the quotation: "_Scribere jussit amor_."

"When I look at that book," said Finnemore to Gordon, "I can't associate
myself with the author, I seem to have quite outgrown him. And as I
recall the verses I say to myself, 'Poor fellow, life was hard to you,'
and I wonder if he really was myself."

With him Gordon saw life from a different angle. He presented the
spectacle of failure, and it rather sobered Gordon's wild enthusiasm, at
times, to feel himself so close to anything so bitterly poignant. But
the hour of youth's domination, even if it be but an hour, is too full
of excitement and confidence to be overclouded by doubts for very long.
Usually Gordon saw in him a pathetic shadow whom he patronised. He did
not realise that it was what he himself might become.

Through the long tedious hours in the shadowy class-room Gordon dreamed
of wonderful successes, and let others pass him by in the rush for
promotion. He began to think that prizes and form lists were not worth
worrying about; he said a classical education had such a narrowing
effect on character. We can always produce arguments to back up an
inclination if we want to. And in Finnemore there was no force to stir
anyone to do what they did not want.

Only once a day was Gordon at all industrious, and that was when the
Chief took the Lower and Upper Sixth Form combined in Horace and
Thucydides.

For the Chief Gordon always worked; not, it is true, with any real
measure of success, for he had rather got out of the habit of grinding
at the classics, but at any rate with energy. And during these hours he
began to perceive vaguely what a clear-sighted, unprejudiced mind the
Chief had. To the boy in the Fourth and Fifth forms any headmaster must
appear not so much a living person as the emblem of authority, the final
dispenser of justice, the hard, analytical sifter of evidence, "coldly
sublime, intolerably just." Gordon had always before looked on the Chief
as a figurehead, who at times would unbend most surprisingly and become
a man; on the cricket field, for example, when in a master's match he
had fielded cleanly a terrific cut at point, and played a sporting
innings; at House suppers, and, most surprisingly of all, when a row was
on, Gordon had been unable to understand him. He could not dissociate
him from his conception of a headmaster--a sort of Mercury, a divine
emissary of the gods, sent as a necessary infliction. Yet at times the
Chief was intensely human, and when Gordon came under his immediate
influence and caught a glimpse of his methods, he saw in a flash that at
all times his headmaster was a generous, sympathetic nature, and that it
was his own distorted view that had ever made him think otherwise. The
Chief was so ready to appreciate a joke, so quick with an answer, so
unassuming, so utterly the antithesis of any master he had met before.

There were one or two incidents that stood out clearer than any others
in Gordon's memories of his Chief.

At the very beginning of the term, before a start had been made on the
term's work, the Chief was talking about Horace's life and
characteristics.

"Now, Tester," he said, "if you were asked to sum up Horace's outlook on
life in a single phrase, what would you say?"

Tester thought for a minute or so.

"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," he hazarded.

The form laughed. It seemed rather a daring generalisation. But the
Chief's answer came back pat:

"Well, hardly that, Tester. Shall we say, Let us eat and drink, but not
too much, or we shall have a stomach-ache to-morrow?"

He had taken Tester's quite erroneous estimate as a basis, and had
exactly hit off Horace's character.

But the following incident more than any other brought home to Gordon
how extraordinarily broadminded the Chief was. Carter was construing,
and had made a most preposterous howler, it does not matter what. He
had learnt the translation in the notes by heart, and quite failed to
connect it verbatim with the Greek.

"There now, you see how utterly absurd you are," said the Chief. "You
have not taken the trouble to look the words up in a dictionary. Just
because you see what you think is a literal translation in the notes.
There lies the fatal error of using cribs. Of course when I catch a boy
in Shell or IV. A using one, I drop on him not only for slackness but
dishonesty. The boy is taking an unfair advantage of the rest and
getting promotion undeservedly. But in the Sixth Form you have got
beyond that stage. We don't worry much about marks here, so there is
nothing immoral in using a crib. It is merely silly. It tends to slack
translation which in the end ruins scholarship. And by using the notes
as you do, Carter, you are doing the same thing. You really must use
more common-sense. Go on, please, Harding."

Gordon was amazed at such a broadminded view of cribbing. He had long
since grown weary of preachers who talked about dishonesty, without
seeming to draw a line between active dishonesty and passive slackness.
The Chief realised that it was deliberate slackness that led to
dishonesty, not dishonesty that was incidentally slack. The Chief must
be a very wise man.

Nevertheless his admiration of the Chief did not make him do any more
work than was strictly necessary; and Gordon began to drift into a
peaceful academic groove, where he did just enough work to pass
unnoticed--neither good nor bad. He had grown tired of ragging. It was
such an effort, especially when the call of football demanded of every
ounce of energy. To drift down-stream may spell mediocrity, but it also
spells security, and, after all, there was little danger of Gordon
becoming a mediocrity in other branches of school life. He was far too
ambitious for that, but his ambitions were not academic. House politics
and athletics were sufficient burdens for one man in one lifetime.
"Other heights in other lives"; and Gordon believed in doing a few
things well.

It was more than lucky for Gordon's future that this term he found
himself a success on the football field. If he had not, he would
probably have sought a prominent position in the eyes of the school by
more doubtful paths; but as it was there was no need for him to plunge
into wild escapades to get noticed. His football attracted quite enough
attention. People spoke of his chances of getting into the Fifteen next
year. The Milton match was his greatest triumph, mainly because the rest
of the side did badly. Lovelace played back and made one or two fine
runs when he got the ball, but as a whole the side played very
half-heartedly. Burgoyne was off colour, and Collins's excuse that he
had been overworking lately did not save him from being kicked out of
the side after the match. But Gordon, who had got his Colts' badge on
the morning of the match, and so was relieved of any anxieties about his
place, played what he always said was his best game; so much so, in
fact, that Buller after the match, said:

"Rotten, absolutely rotten, with the exception of Caruthers, who played
magnificently."

There was only one blot on his performance, and that, though everyone
laughed about it, caused Gordon some regretful moments afterwards.
Rightly or wrongly Gordon thought the opposite scrum half was not
putting the ball in straight. Gordon told him what he thought of him.
The scrum half called him "a bloody interfering bastard," and told him
to go to hell. The next time the scrum half got the ball Gordon flung
him with unnecessary force, when he was already in touch, right into the
ropes. And from then onwards the relations between Gordon and the scrum
half were those of a scrapping match. Gordon came off best. He got a
bruise on the left thigh, but no one could notice that, while his
opponent had a bleeding nose and a cut lip. The school was amused, but
Gordon overheard a Milton man say: "I don't think much of the way these
Fernhurst men play the game. Look at that tick of a forward there. Dirty
swine!"

After the game Gordon apologised to the half, and exchanged the usual
compliments; but he could see that the rest of the Milton side were not
at all pleased.

He spoke to Mansell about it.

"My dear man, don't you worry. You played a jolly fine game this
afternoon, and if you go on like that you are a cert. for your Firsts
next year. You played a damned hard game."

"Yes; but it is rather a bad thing for the school, isn't it, if we get a
reputation for playing rough?"

"But you weren't playing foul, and Buller always tells us to go hard and
play as rough as we like."

"Yes; but still----"

He was not quite reassured, though everyone told him it was all right.
However, if "the Bull" made no comment, it looked as if nothing could be
wrong. As a matter of fact, "the Bull" had not noticed; and though
Christy, in a fit of righteous indignation, poured out a long story to
him, he only smiled.

"Oh, well, I expect he got a bit excited. First time he had played
footer for a school side.... I was a bit fierce my first game for
England. Don't blame him. He's a keen kid, and I am sure the other side
did not mind."

Christy mumbled indistinctly. No one ever seemed to take much notice of
what he said. That evening, however, he and Rogers, over a glass of
port, agreed that Caruthers was a thoroughly objectionable young fellow
who ought to be taken in hand, and with this Christian sentiment to
inspire him Rogers went home to put a few finishing touches to his
sermon for the next day.



CHAPTER II: CARNIVAL


The tradition of Pack Monday Fair at Fernhurst is almost as old as the
School House studies. The legend, whether authenticated or not only
Macdonald, the historian of Fernhurst, could say, was handed down from
generation to generation. It was believed that, when the building of the
Abbey was finished, all the masons, glass-workers and artificers packed
up their tools and paraded the town with music and song, celebrating the
glory of their accomplished work. And from time immemorial the
townspeople have celebrated the second Monday in October by assembling
outside the Abbey at midnight, and ushering in a day of marketing and
revelry by a procession through the town, beating tin cans and blowing
upon posthorns. With the exception of this ritual, the day had become
merely an ordinary fair. But there was no sleeping on that Sunday night,
and for the whole week tantalising sounds of shrieking merry-go-rounds,
of whistling tramcars and thundering switchbacks were borne across the
night to disturb those who were trying to work in hall. It used to be
the custom for the bloods to creep out at night and take part in the
revels; but when the new Chief had come, four years before, he put a
firm hand upon such abuses, and had even threatened to expel anyone he
found in the act, a threat which he had carried out promptly by
expelling the best half-back in the school a fortnight before the
Dulbridge match; so that now only a few daring spirits stole out in the
small hours of the night on the hazardous expedition. Those courageous
souls were the objects of the deepest veneration among the smaller boys,
who would whisper quietly of their doings in the upper dormitories when
darkness lent a general security to the secrets that were being
revealed.

This term about three days before Pack Monday, Gordon, Mansell, Carter
and a few others were engaged in their favourite hobby of shipping
Rudd's study. One chair had already gone the way of all old wood, and
the table was in danger of following it, when Rudd suddenly burst out:

"Oh, you think yourselves damned fine fellows, six of you against one!"

A roar of laughter went up. It was the traditional complaint of all
weaklings in school stories, and was singularly of the preparatory
school type of defence.

"Jolly brave, aren't you? I'd like to see any one of you do anything
that might get you into trouble. I don't mind betting there's not one of
you that would dare to come out with me to the fair next Monday."

There was an awkward pause. The challenge was unconventional; and the
Public School boy is not brought up to expect surprises. The only thing
to do was to pass it off with a joke.

Lovelace stepped into the breach.

"Do you think any of us would go anywhere with a swine like you who does
not wash? Dirty hog!"

"Of course you would not; you are afraid."

At that point Gordon's hatred of taking the second place, which had
before led him into difficulties, once again asserted itself. "Damn it
all," he thought, "I am not going to be beaten by Rudd!"

"Do you say we are all funks if we don't go?"

"Yes!"

"All right then, damn you, I will go with you, just to show you that you
are not the only person in this rotten school who's fool enough to risk
being bunked."

Rudd was taken aback. He had made the challenge out of bravado. He had
regretted it instantly. In the same spirit Gordon had accepted the
challenge; he also wished he had not the moment afterwards. But both saw
that they would have to go through with it now.

"Good man," said Rudd, not to be outdone. "I wanted someone to go with
me; rather lonely these little excursions without company."

He spoke with the air of one who spent every other night giving
dinner-parties at the Eversham Tap.

"Look here, now," broke in Mansell, "don't make bloody fools of
yourselves. You will only get the sack if you are caught, and you
probably will get caught; you are sure to do something silly. For God's
sake, don't go. It's not worth it. Really, not!"

"Oh, shut up; don't panic," was Gordon's scornful answer; "we are going
to have a fine time, aren't we, Rudd?"

"Splendid," said Rudd, who wanted to laugh; the whole situation was
fraught with such a perfectly impossible irony.

"Oh, do have some sense, man." Lovelace was impatient with him. "What is
the use of rushing about at midnight in slouch hats with a lot of silly,
shrieking girls?"

"You can't understand, you live in the country. I am a Londoner. You
want the true Cockney spirit that goes rolling drunk on Hampstead Heath
on Easter Monday."

"Well, thank God, I do want it, then," said Lovelace.

Rumour flies round a house quickly. In hall several people came up and
asked Gordon if it was true. They looked at him curiously with an
expression in which surprise and admiration were curiously blended. The
old love of notoriety swept over Gordon once more; he felt frightfully
bucked with himself. What a devil of a fellow he was, to be sure. He
went round the studies in hall, proclaiming his audacity.

"I say, look here, old chap, you needn't tell anyone, but I am going out
to Pack Monday Fair; it will be some rag!"

The sensation he caused was highly gratifying. By prayers all his
friends and most of his acquaintances knew of it. Of course they would
keep it secret. But Gordon knew well that by break next day it would be
round the outhouses, and he looked forward to the number of questions he
would get asked. To be the hero of an impending escapade was pleasant.

"I say, Davenport," he said in his dormitory that evening, "I am going
out to the fair on Monday."

Davenport said nothing, and showed no sign of surprise. Gordon was
disappointed.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he said at last.

"That you are a sillier ass than I thought you were," said Davenport.

And as Gordon lay thinking over everything in the dark, he came to the
conclusion that Davenport was not so very far wrong after all.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cold and nervous, Gordon waited for Rudd in the dark boot-hole under the
Chief's study on Pack Monday night just before twelve. In stockinged
feet he had crept downstairs, opened the creaking door without making
any appreciable noise, and then waited in the boot-room, which was
filled with the odour of blacking and damp decay. There was a small
window at the end of it, through which it was just possible to squeeze
out on to the Chief's front lawn. After that all was easy; anyone could
clamber over the wall by the V. A green.

There was the sound of feet on the stairs. It seemed to Gordon as if
they were bound to wake the whole house. Rudd's figure was framed black
in the doorway.

Silently they wormed their way through the window. The damp soil of a
flower bed was cold under their feet; with his hand Rudd smoothed out
the footprints.

They stole down the silent cloisters, echoing shadows leered at them.
The wall of the V. A green rose dark and sinister. At last breathless
among the tombstones by the Abbey they slipped on their boots, turned up
coat collars and drew their caps over their eyes.

A minute later the glaring lights of the booths in Cheap Street engulfed
them. They were jostled in the crowd. It was, after all, only Hampstead
Heath on a small scale.

"Walk up, walk up! All the fun of the fair! Buy a teazer! Buy a teazer!
Buy a teazer! Tickle the girls! Walk up! Try your luck at the darts,
sir; now then, sir, come on!"

The confused roar was as music to Gordon's soul. He had the Cockney love
of a fair. The children of London are still true to the coster legends
of the Old Kent Road.

Gordon and Rudd did not stop long in Cheap Street. The real business was
in the fair fields by Rogers's house. This was only the outskirts.

The next hour passed in a dream. Lights flared, rifles snapped at
fugitive ping-pong balls leaping on cascades of water, swing-boats rose
heavenwards, merry-go-rounds banged out rag-time choruses. Gordon let
himself go. He and Rudd tried everything. After wasting half-a-crown on
the cocoanuts, Rudd captured first go at the darts a wonderful vase
decorated with the gilt legend, "A Present from Fernhurst," and Gordon
at the rifle range won a beautiful china shepherdess which held for days
the admiration of the School House, until pining perhaps for its lover,
which by no outlay of darts could Gordon secure, it became dislodged
from the bracket and fell in pieces on the floor, to be swept away by
Arthur, the school _custos_, into the perpetual darkness of the dustbin.

Weary at last, the pair sought the shelter of a small café, where they
luxuriously sipped lemonade. Faces arose out of the night, passed by and
faded out again. The sky was red with pleasure, the noise and shrieks
grew louder and more insistent. There was a dance going on.

"I say, Rudd, do you dance?"

"No, not much."

"Well, look here, I can, a bit; at any rate I am going to have a bit of
fun over there. Let us go on our own for a bit. Meet me here at a
quarter to four."

"Right," said Rudd, and continued sipping the lurid poison that called
itself American cream soda, and was in reality merely a cheap illness.

Gordon walked in the direction of the dancing. The grass had been cut
quite short in a circle, and to the time of a broken band the town
dandies were whirling round, flushed with excitement and the close
proximity of a female form. "The Mænads and the Bassarids," murmured
Gordon to himself, and cursed his luck for not knowing any of the girls.
Disconsolately he wandered across to the Bijou Theatre, a tumble-down
hut where a huge crowd was jostling and shouting.

He ran into something and half apologised.

"Oh, don't mind me," a high-pitched voice shrieked excitedly.

He turned round and saw the flushed face of a girl of about nineteen
looking up at him. She was alone.

"I say," Gordon muttered nervously, "you look a bit lonely, come and
have some ginger beer."

"Orl right. I don't mind. Give us your arm!"

They rolled off to a neighbouring stall, where Gordon stood his Juliet
countless lemonades and chocolates. He felt very brave and grown-up, and
thought contemptuously of Davenport in bed dreaming some fatuous dream,
while he was engulfed in noise and colour. This was life. From the stall
the two wandered to the swing-boats, and towering high above the tawdry
glitter of the revel saw through the red mist the Abbey, austere and
still, the School House dormitories stretching silent with suspended
life, the class-rooms peopled with ghosts.

A plank jarred under the boat.

"Garn, surely it ain't time to stop yet," wailed Emmie.

He had gathered enough courage to ask her her name.

"Have another?" pleaded Gordon.

"No; let us try the lively thing over there. These boats do make me feel
so funny-like."

The merry-go-round was just stopping. There was a rush for the horses.
Gordon leapt on one, and leaning down caught Emmie up and sat her in
front of him; she lay back in his arms in a languor of satisfied
excitement. Her hair blew across his face, stifling him; on every side
couples were hugging and squeezing. The sensuous whirl of the machine
was acting as a narcotic, numbing thought. He caught her flushed, tired
face in his hands and kissed her wildly, beside himself with the
excitement of the moment.

"You don't mind, do you?" he murmured in a hoarse whisper.

"Don't be so silly; I have been waiting for that. Now we can get
comfy-like."

Her arms were round his neck, her flushed face was hot on his, her hair
hung over his shoulders. The strains of _You Made Me Love You_ came
inarticulate with passion out of the shrieking organ. Her elbow nudged
him. Her lips were as fire beneath his. The machine slowed down and
stopped. Gordon paid for five extra rounds. Dazed with new and hitherto
unrealised sensations, Gordon forgot everything but the strange warm
thing nestling in his arms; and he abandoned himself to the passion of
the moment.

At last their time was up. Closely, her hair on his shoulder, they moved
to the dancing circle, and plunged into the throng of the shouting,
jostling dancers. Of the next two hours Gordon could remember nothing.
He had vague recollections of streaming hair, of warm hands, and of
fierce, wild kisses. Lights flickered, shot skywards, and went out.
Forms loomed before him, a strange weariness came over him, he
remembered flinging himself beside her in the grass and burying his face
in her hair. She seemed to speak as from a very long way off. Once more
the dance caught them. Then _Auld Lang Syne_ struck up. Hands were
clasped, a circle swayed riotously. There were promises to meet next
night, promises that neither meant to keep. Rudd was waiting impatiently
at the café. Once more the wall by the Abbey rose spectral, once more
the cloisters echoed vaguely. The boot-hole window creaked.

As the dawn broke tempestuously in the sky Gordon fell across his bed,
his brain tired with a thousand memories, all fugitive, all vague, all
exquisitely unsubstantial.

       *       *       *       *       *

With heavy, tired eyes Gordon ran down to breakfast a second before
time. He felt utterly weary, exhausted, incapable of effort. People came
up and asked him in whispers if everything had turned out well. He
answered absentmindedly, incoherently.

"I don't believe you went there at all," a voice jeered.

Gordon did not reply. He merely put his hand in his pocket and pulled
out the china shepherdess that he was about to place on the rickety
study bracket.

Doubt was silenced.

The long hours of morning school passed by on leaden feet; he seemed
unable to answer any question right; even the Chief was annoyed.

Rain fell in torrents. The Colts game was scratched.

On a pile of cushions laid on the floor Gordon slept away the whole
afternoon. From four to six he had to write a Greek Prose in his study.
The tea bell scattered his dreams. He rose languidly, with the
unpleasant sensation of work unfinished.

The row of faces at tea seemed to frighten him. He felt as if he had
awakened out of a nightmare, that still held on to him with cold, clammy
hands, and was trying to draw him back once more into its web. Visions
rose before him of shrieking showmen's booths, blinking with tawdry
yellow eyes. Emmie's hoarse laugh grated on his ears; he was overwrought
and wanted to shout, to shriek, to give some vent to his feelings. But
he seemed chained to the long bench, and his tongue was tied so that he
could only mouth out silly platitudes about the weather and the
Fifteen's chances.

On his way back to the studies he felt an arm laid in his. He shivered
and turned round, half expecting to see Emmie's flushed, exciting face
peering up at him. He almost sighed with relief when he found it was
Tester.

"Look here, just come for a stroll round the courts. The rain's stopped.
I want to talk to you."

They wandered out under the lindens.

"I suppose you did go out last night, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"What on earth did you do it for?"

"I am sick of the whole affair," Gordon said petulantly. "Rudd called
the lot of us funks, so----"

"I know that tale quite well," Tester broke in. "I want to know why you
went out. At least I don't mean that. I mean to tell you why you went
out, because I don't think you know yourself. You have made an awful
fool of yourself. You have run the risk of getting sacked, merely
because you wanted to be talked about."

"I didn't. I went because I was jolly well not going to have Rudd
calling me a funk."

"Comes to the same thing in the end, doesn't it? You did not want to
play second fiddle; you didn't want Rudd to appear to have scored. You
wanted to be the central figure. Much the same, isn't it? The love of
notoriety."

Gordon murmured something inaudible.

"And it is all so damned silly. You are running the risk of getting the
sack, and for nothing at all. I can understand quite well anyone being
drawn into anything dangerous by a strong emotion or feeling. It is
natural. Masters say we should curb our natures. I don't know if they
are right. That's neither here nor there. There was nothing natural in
what you did. It was merely rotten imbecility--your self-consciousness,
your fear of not seeming to have done the right thing. You can't go on
like this. I own that this term you have been more or less sane. The
last two terms I have often wondered what was going to happen to you.
You had no balance; you kept on doing silly little things so as to hold
the attention of a more stupid audience. This term you have stopped that
sort of rot. But what is the use of it going to be, if you go and do
things like this on the impulse of the moment, merely because you don't
want to look silly? You can't think how much more silly you look by
playing the ruddy ass during the small hours inside a stinking booth!
You can't afford to do that sort of thing. Your ambition is to be
captain of the House, and not a bad ambition either. But do you realise
that if you are going to be a real power in the House, if you are going
to fight the masters, as you say you will, you can't afford to fling
away points? You must appear impregnable. Don't be an ass. A master
holds all the high cards. If you play into his hand, he has you done to
the world. Suppose you were caught going out at night your last year,
what would happen? You might get the sack at once; and all your
rebellion would be wasted. And, mark you, a rebellion is wanted. There
is real need of a man who has the strength of his opinions and sticks
out. What's the use of it if you go and get sacked? Of course, they
might keep you on, and ask you to go at the end of the term to save your
face. What would your position be then? You would be bound hand and
foot, powerless to do anything. Life would slip past you. You have got
to be above suspicion. Think, however much you may want to do a thing
now, however much praise you may think an action of yours would get,
stop and consider how it will appear two years hence. A really serious
row might knock you out for the rest of your time here: a bad name
sticks. Remember that. Think of the day when you are going to be a real
power, and stand up for the independence of the individual to think as
he likes, not as Buller likes; for the independence of the House to run
itself. 'The Bull' runs our house to-day. You hear men say, 'We can't do
that, Buller would be sick!' You have to free them of Buller's tyranny,
if you are going to be a man; and if you do, you can't fight in rusty
armour. These masters may be fools, but they have the cards."

Gordon listened to Tester's flow of words. He was furious. But when at
last lights were put out and he lay back in bed and watched the stars
steadfast in love and splendour, and the moon immutable, enigmatic,
smiling quietly, he appreciated the truth of Tester's argument. A great
battle was before him; he would have to go into it strong and prepared
at every point. There must be no chink in his coat of mail.

Some day his hour would come; till then he had to wait in patience, and
during the long vigil he would keep his shield clean of rust. He would
have to think, to weigh his decisions, to keep before his eyes the goal
towards which his ambition was set.



CHAPTER III: BROADENING OUTLOOK


Like a huge reel of thread the long winter term unrolled itself.
November drifted by with its gusty winds that shrieked in the empty
cloisters. December came with its dark mornings and steadily falling
rains. The First Fifteen matches were over. Dulbridge and Tonford had
both been beaten handsomely; Mansell had got his Firsts. The Colts drew
at Limborne, and finished their season with an overwhelming victory over
Weybridge. House games began again, and the Thirds and Two Cock became
the only possible topics of conversation. During the first half of the
term Hazelton, as was inevitable, had had to spend nearly all his time
in First Fifteen puntabouts and upper ground games. The House had seen
little of him. But now, with all the big matches over, and only the old
Fernhurstians' match to come on the last Saturday of the term, he had
time to devote all his energies to the training of house sides. If he
had not talked so much he would have been one of the strong, silent
Englishmen. For to all outward appearances he was taciturn,
unimaginative, self-willed. But he had a very nasty tongue, and never
hesitated to use it at the expense of his enemies. As a house captain he
was a distinct success. He knew the game well, and was able to inspire a
keenness that was not jingoistic. He also had the rare virtue of knowing
where to stop. He never made sides play on till they were speechless
with fatigue, as some over-enthusiastic house captains had been known to
do. He was very popular with his sides.

Every evening before hall there congregated in Gordon's study all the
old faces of his first year, with one or two new ones. Nowhere so easily
as at a Public School does one find oneself drifting apart from an old
acquaintance; not for any real reason, not for any quarrel, but merely
because circumstances seem to will it so. But when the thought of House
matches returned, the old lot came back together to fight their battles
over again, and to dream of the silver cups glittering below the statue
of Edward VI. They were all there: Hunter, who had seemed to pass almost
out of Gordon's life since he had begun to play in the Fifteen;
Mansell, who now spent much of his time with Hazelton; Betteridge, who
was more often than not with Harding. No. 1 Study was very convenient.
Roll was held just outside, and when the prefect's voice was heard
calling the first name the door would be flung open, and still reclining
in arm-chairs they shouted out the immemorial "sum." About five minutes
before the hour of roll-call juniors from the day-room and the farther
studies would begin to collect round the hot pipes in the passage,
fearful of being late. Then in No. 1 Lovelace would wind up the
gramophone, and the strains of _When the Midnight Choo-choo leaves for
Alabama_ broke out with deafening violence. The concert lasted till the
first strokes of the hour had boomed out. Roll over, they all separated
to their various studies. Lovelace took out his _Sportsman_ and began to
total up his winnings; Gordon either lay full length in the hammock, a
new and much envied acquisition which was slung across from door to
window, and read for the hundredth time the haunting melodies of
_Rococo_, or else, as was more usual, wandered round the studies with
the magnificent air of indifference that marked all members of the
Sixth.

Then came prayers; after which Gordon and Davenport made for the
seclusion of their double dormitory. Lights were out at nine-fifteen for
the big upper dormitories, and till then they used to wander down the
passage for the ostensible reason of getting hot water, but in reality
to watch, with the superior air of Olympians, the life of lesser breeds.
They imagined themselves great bloods during these few minutes after
prayers. Sometimes when the House tutor was supposed to be out they
would join in a game of football in the passage; but as they were caught
once and each got a Georgic, this pastime lost its charm. Usually they
lolled in the doorway with a perfect superiority, and talked of the old
"rags" and discomfitures of two years back, for the benefit of admiring
listeners.

"Do you remember when Mansell slept in that bed?" Gordon would say.

"No; I was not here that term," Davenport would reply; "but I sha'n't
forget when the Chief found Betteridge's bed pitched on the floor, with
Betteridge underneath and Lovelace sitting on top."

Was it possible, thought some small fry, that the great Mansell, who
played for the Fifteen, had once actually slept in the same bed as he
occupied now? Had Betteridge, who had only that night given half the
day-room a hundred lines, once had his bed shipped on that very floor!
It all seemed like a gigantic fairy story. And to think that Caruthers
had seen these things!

But they were not long, these moments of the assumption of the godhead.
Darkness soon fell on the long passage, and only whispered talking
sounded faint and far away. Gordon and Davenport then went back to their
room, and on evenings after a hard game they had a small supper. They
had managed to discover a loose board, and the floor space caused by its
removal served as a cupboard, a cupboard so damp and unhealthy that the
most lenient sanitary inspector must infallibly have condemned it. Here,
just before afternoon school, they secreted ginger beer bottles, a loaf
of bread, butter, some tomatoes and a chunk of Gorgonzola cheese. In the
morning they carried away the bottles in their pockets. It would have
been much easier and much more comfortable to have had a meal in their
study, but then it would have lacked the savour of romance. The rule
forbidding the importation of food into the dormitories was very strict.
At the end of the term, when both were going to leave that particular
room, they nailed down the board, so that no other marauder should
imitate them. They wished to be unique. But before they did so, they put
in the mouldy cupboard a lemonade bottle and one of the blue Fernhurst
roll-books for the Michaelmas Term, 1913. They underlined their names in
it, and left it as a memento of a few happy evenings.

"I wonder," said Caruthers, "if years hence someone will pull up that
board and find the book, and seeing our names will wonder who we were."

"Perhaps," said Davenport. "And, you know, they may try and find out
something about us in back numbers of _The Fernhurstian_, or in the
photographs of house sides. Do you think they will be able to find out
anything about us?"

"I hope so; but how little we know even of the bloods of 1905, and as
likely as not we sha'n't ever be bloods. It will be rather funny if some
day of all the things we have done nothing remains but the blue
roll-book."

"Funny?" said Davenport. "Rather pathetic, I should say."

At fifteen one is apt to be sentimental.

Perhaps some rude fingers have already torn up that board; perhaps even
now some new generation of Fernhurstians is using it as a receptacle for
tobacco, or cheese, or any other commodity contraband to the
dormitories. But perhaps underneath a board in No. 1 double dormitory
there still repose that identical lemonade bottle and the roll-book with
its blue cover, now sadly faded and its leaves turned up with age, to
serve as Gordon's epitaph, when all his other deeds have perished in
oblivion.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is perhaps nothing that has made so many friendships as a big row,
or the prospect of one. We always feel in sympathy with people whose
aims are identical with our own, and the principals in some big row or
escapade cannot help being bound close together by common ties. A mutual
danger has brought together many ill-assorted pairs, and among others it
showed Gordon and Rudd that they had something in common with one
another. Gordon had always looked upon Rudd as a guileless ass who was
no good at games, did nothing for the House, and was only useful as the
universal provider of cribs. But after the Pack Monday Fair incident
Gordon saw that there was in Rudd a something which, if not exactly to
be admired, came very near it. It was a daring thing to challenge anyone
who was willing to come to the fair with him, and he had not shown the
slightest wish to back out of his agreement. Gordon decided to make his
better acquaintance, and in the process was brought face to face with
another fresh character, a type that was to set before him different
aims and standards. For Gordon was sharp enough to see more or less
below the surface. Rudd was a new type to him. It was clear that he had
some merits, especially pluck; and yet he was no good at games, and,
what was more extraordinary, did not seem in the least worried about his
failures. Gordon had always pitied those who could not scrape into the
Thirds.

"Poor devils!" he used to say in the arrogance of his own
self-satisfaction. "I expect they tried just as much as we did. And it
must be pretty awful for them to realise that they are no real use at
games at all."

He had never thought it possible that anyone with the slightest claims
to respectability could be quite indifferent to athletic success. But
Rudd was, after all, a presentable fellow, and yet he did not mind in
the least.

It was all very strange.

Only by trying to see the points of view of others do we get any real
idea of the trend of human thought. It is quite useless to start life
with fixed standards, and try to bring everyone to realise their
virtues. We must have some standard, it is true, or we should be as
rudderless boats; but it is of paramount importance that our standards
should be sufficiently elastic to include new movements; and not until
we have tried and weighed in the balance, and considered and sifted the
philosophies of others, should we attempt to form a philosophy for
ourselves.

By nature Gordon was arrogant and self-satisfied; but by meeting types
different from himself and in their company gaining glimpses of goals
other than his own, his character was undoubtedly broadened, his horizon
extended, and he managed to get things into better proportion.

For several people just at this time were influencing Gordon. But none
more so than Ferrers. Ever since the Stoics debate Gordon had become a
profound admirer of the new master, who had banged into the cloistered
Fernhurst life, bubbling over with the ideas of the rising generation,
intolerant of prejudice and tradition, clamorous for reform. It was a
great sight to see him walking about the courts. He was nearly always
dressed the same, in his blue woollen waistcoat, soft collar and serge
suit. He never walked anywhere without at least two books under his arm.
He was recognisable at once. If a stranger had glanced round the courts
in break, and had been asked afterwards if any of the masters had
attracted his attention, he might perhaps have mentioned "the Bull's"
powerful roll; with a smile he might have remarked on the prelatical
Rogers, stalking like Buckingham "half in heaven." There were six or
seven he _might_ have noticed, but there was only one person whom he
must have seen, whom he could not possibly have failed to pick out
immediately, and that was Ferrers. Personality was written on every
feature of his face, every movement was typical of youthful vigour and
action. His half-contemptuous swing suggested a complete scorn of
everything known before 1912. He was the great god of Gordon's soul,
greater even than Lovelace major had been, far greater than Meredith.

As he sat listening to Finnemore discussing artistic questions in form,
he felt wildly impatient to hear Ferrer's opinion. Nothing seemed
settled definitely until Ferrers had spoken, and only the Army and
Matriculation classes had the tremendous advantages of doing English
with him. Most of Ferrer's time was wasted in attempts to drive home
mathematical theories into the dense brain of a lower school set.

As to his influence in the school there could be no two opinions. The
bloods, of course, were too completely settled in their grooves of
Philistinism and self-worship to feel the force of innovation. But even
on a mild character like Foster's his effect was startling. Ferrer's
great theory was: "Let boys take their own time. The adage that it does
a boy good to do what he hates may be all right for the classics, but it
is no good to try that game with literature. Find out what a boy likes.
Encourage him, show you are in sympathy with his taste, and once in his
confidence gradually lead him step by step to the real stuff. He will
follow you, if you only make out you like what he likes. A boy hates the
superior attitude of 'Oh, quite good in its way, of course.' A master
must get to the boy's level; it is fatuous to try and drag the boy to
his at once." And there is abundant proof to show that this plan was a
success. When Ferrers first came, Foster, for example, read nothing but
Kipling and Guy Boothby. During his last term Gordon found him absorbed
in _Vanity Fair_ and _The Duchess of Malfi_. It would be difficult to
over-estimate the good Ferrers did at Fernhurst. From afar Gordon
worshipped him. He learnt from Foster what Ferrers had read to his form
and what he recommended them to read, and as soon as he could he
borrowed or bought the book. The school book-shop about this time began
to find in Gordon its most generous patron. At times Gordon would tell
Foster to ask Ferrers questions that interested him. And the answers,
usually a little vague and elastic, spurred Gordon on to fresh fields.
His taste was beginning to grow, and football "shop" was no longer his
only topic of conversation.



CHAPTER IV: THIRDS


There was only one thing that at all worried Gordon just now, and that
was the behaviour of the Hazlitt brethren. Mention has already been made
of this couple. During their first few terms they gave every promise of
developing into the very worst types that banality and athletic success
can produce, and these expectations had been abundantly fulfilled. The
elder brother had his points, but they were few, the chief one being
that he was fairly good at games, which, after all, is but a negative
quality. But the younger, who was as useless as he was generally
officious, was entirely devoid of any redeeming feature. His ways were
the ways of a slum child playing in the gutter, and his sense of humour
was limited to shouting rude remarks after other people, knocking off
hats, and then running away. His language was foul enough to disgust
even a Public School's taste. Gordon loathed him. One evening he and
Lovelace discussed the child.

"Look here," said Gordon, "it's no good, this. That unutterable little
tick Hazlitt knocked off my hat as I was looking at the notice-board
to-day, and I am not going to stand it. By the time I had turned round
he was half-way across the courts."

"The little swine! He is not fit to be in a decent school. If he can't
get rid of the habits he learnt with street cads in the holidays of his
own accord, he'll have to be kicked out of them. We will wait for him
one day, and if we see him knock a School House straw off, my God, we
will boot him to blazes!"

"Right you are. It won't be bullying. It will be treating a dirty beast
in the only way he can understand."

About three days later, from their study window, they saw Hazlitt minor
proceeding to the notice-board after lunch. They left their study and
walked into the cloisters.

Hazlitt minor read the notices, discovered that, as he was posted on no
game, he must of necessity take himself to the "pick-up," and then
looked round. Davenham was conscientiously perusing a notice, although
there was no likelihood of his own name appearing on any. (It is almost
true to say that nobody looked at the board except the people about whom
there are no notices to read.) There was an announcement four days old
to the effect that C.J. Mansell had been presented with his First
Fifteen colours. Davenham seemed to find it vastly interesting. Hazlitt
stole up behind, and knocked his hat flying across the cloister. In a
second Gordon and Lovelace were on him. They did not care in the very
least what happened to Davenham. He played no part in their life. But a
School House man had been "cheeked" by a filthy little outhouse swab.
These aliens had to be taught their place.

"What do you mean by that, you awful tick?" shouted Lovelace. "Davenham,
go and fetch a hockey stick from Tester's study."

Hazlitt let out with his feet and caught Gordon on the ankle, but the
horrible hack he got in return quieted him.

Davenham appeared with a hockey stick.

Gordon managed to get Hazlitt's head between his knees, and Lovelace
began to give that worthy a beating he was never likely to forget. In a
few minutes he was blubbering for mercy. Fletcher passed by.

"Here you are, Archie," yelled Gordon; "come and have a shot at this
swine Hazlitt; we are teaching him that he can't go about knocking off
School House hats with impunity."

"Right you are, my lads."

By the time Archie had finished, Hazlitt had almost collapsed. Gordon
let him go, and with a hefty boot sent him flying into the cloisters.

"I don't think we shall have any more of him for a bit," said Lovelace,
with satisfaction.

"No; these outhouse lads want showing their place from time to time. The
School House, after all, is _the_ place. We are like Rome, the mother
city; the other outhouses are merely provinces of ours. Jolly good of us
to let them use our buildings at all. Come and change; we have done a
good deed, my friends."

But the matter did not end there. That evening in Buller's dormitories
Hazlitt told a story of how Caruthers had been bullying him for no
reason, and hacking him till he could hardly sit down. He left out
Lovelace's name, because Lovelace was popular with the Buller's crowd.
News of this reached Felston, the second prefect. He fumed with rage,
and sought Gregory, the Buller's house captain.

"Have you heard the latest? That swine Caruthers has been bullying
Hazlitt. He drove him all round the cloisters, hitting him with a hockey
stick."

"Good God, the swine! Did he really! My word, I'll lay him out in the
Three Cock. You wait, that's all. When he plays in the Three Cock, I'll
lay him out for dead in the first ten minutes."

In due course this story found its way to the Buller's day-room, where
was great rejoicing. So Caruthers was going to be laid out, was he? How
damned funny! Hazlitt's heart leapt within him. His evil little mind
pictured Gordon being carried off the field, absolutely smashed up. He
gloated.

Gordon laughed when he heard of it.

"Oh, well, at any rate I shall have my shot at them first in the Thirds
and Two Cock."

He was secretly rather pleased to see that even his enemies had not the
slightest doubt about his getting a place in the Three Cock. A House cap
was just then his great ambition. But for all that he suffered
considerable annoyance. Whenever he went up to the tuck-shop a voice
from the Buller's doorway croaked: "Wait for the Three Cock!"

At first it was rather amusing. But soon it got distinctly tiresome.
Deep in his heart he cursed the tick Hazlitt and the whole Buller crowd.
A joke could be carried to an extreme. And it slowly dawned on him that,
if he did play in the Three Cock, he was in for a remarkably thin time.

Almost the last words he heard as the eight-forty swept out of Fernhurst
station on the last morning, with its waving hands and shoutings, was a
shriek from the Buller's day-room: "Wait for the Three Cock!" Gordon
laughed for a second, and then looked bored. The jest had ceased to have
a shred of humour left upon it. It was naked and ought to be ashamed.

The Easter term opened in the conventional way with rain, slush and
influenza. The fields were flooded, the country a lake; the bare
branches dripped incessantly. But for all that the first round of the
Thirds began on the first Saturday.

Buller's drew Rogers's. There was no doubt as to the result. It would be
a walk-over for Buller's, though Burgoyne might get over the line once
or twice.

There was a crowd in front of the pavilion.

"Well, do something, at any rate," said Gordon. "Don't let Buller's get
above themselves. You keep them in order."

"Oh yes, we'll sit on them!" laughed Burgoyne. "By the way, I think it
would be rather a good scheme to lay out Hazlitt minor, don't you?"

Never did any forward in any house match at Fernhurst take the field
without the sworn intention of laying out some hated opponent.
Nevertheless during the whole time Gordon was at school only one boy was
hurt so badly that he had to leave the field. And that was an accident.
He broke his collar-bone, falling over by the goal-posts. It had become
almost a custom to state whom you were going to lay out before the
match. The idea sounds brutal, but it never led to anything. Gordon knew
this as well as anyone.

"Good man! And look here, if you do, I'll give you a bob."

"A bargain?"

"Of course."

"Right, my lad. We will have a good supper to-night in my study."

The match followed the ordinary course. Frenzied juniors rushed up and
down the touch-line inarticulate with excitement; the bloods, strolling
arm in arm, patronised the game mildly. Buller's won very easily.
Hazlitt played quite decently and scored once. Burgoyne went
supperless.

The second and third rounds were played; everywhere Buller's triumphed.
No house was beaten by less than forty points. Not a try was scored
against them. Christy's, who had lost by forty-four points to nil, had,
as the least unsuccessful house, the doubtful honour of joining forces
with Buller's to play the School House in the final.

The betting was fairly even. Buller's thought they would win; the House,
as usual, was certain of victory. The school expected a level game, and
on the whole wanted to see a School House win. Buller's had had too much
success of late years; and envy was inevitably at work.

The selection of the combined outhouse side caused a lot of
consideration. There was once an idea of playing Hazlitt minor, but much
to the annoyance of the House this plan was, from the outhouse point of
view, wisely dropped. And now Jack Whitaker--he was always known as
Jack--enters the story.

Jack was a very decent sort of kid, much (in the School House
estimation) above the standard of Buller's day-room. He was a little
rowdy and ostentatious, but had the justification of being really good
at something. He was a promising half-back, and his cricket was so good
that there was talk of his getting a trial for the School Eleven. Gordon
and he got on rather well. But he was very young; under fifteen, in
fact, and very impetuous.

About a week before the Thirds "the Bull" was discussing the match in
the dormitories. Jack was very full of words.

"I say, sir, isn't it awfully lucky for Hazlitt that he is not playing?"

"The Bull" was surprised. Only that evening he had been talking with
Hazlitt, and telling him how sorry he was that there was no place for
him in the side.

"Why, Jack? I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, well, you see, sir, all the School House fellows had sworn to lay
him out!"

"You must not talk like that, Jack. It is not sporting. And it stirs up
ill feeling in the school. You can't honestly believe that any gentleman
would play a game in that spirit. You have no proof of what you say
except mere rumour, I suppose. You mustn't talk like that."

"The Bull" was not at all pleased, and walked away to turn out the
light. Whitaker saw he had gone too far and had said more than he meant
to. But he couldn't stand the idea that "the Bull" should think he had
been repeating merely idle chatter.

"But, sir, I know for certain that in the Christy's match the School
House men were offering money to Christy's to lay Hazlitt out."

Buller stopped with his hand on the gas-tap.

"That is a very serious accusation, Jack. Are you telling me that any
Fernhurst boys so lack sportsmanlike feeling as to bribe boys in other
houses to lay out their rivals, so that it will be easier for them to
win."

"Oh, sir, I don't think that they meant that."

"Well, you said it, at any rate."

The gas went out suddenly. "The Bull" strode out without saying
good-night. In his study he turned over in his mind the extraordinary
story he had heard. If what Jack had told him was the truth, Fernhurst
football, which was to him, and to many others, the finest thing in the
world, had become little better than league professionalism. Bribes were
being offered for men to be laid out. He had never heard of such a
thing. There was no one to remind him that the offering of bribes means
little to a schoolboy, and the mere talk of "laying people out" still
less. It is all a question of custom, of the sense in which phrases are
used by the particular speakers who use them.

There are certain words which to-day are vulgar and disgusting, but
which in the days of Shakespeare would have been used in any company
without a blush. And this is so merely because time has given the words
a different significance. Indeed, from the point of view of the average
person, to leave schoolmasters out of the question, the idea of offering
bribes to lay out athletes is revolting. And so it is. It is
unsportsmanlike, unworthy of English traditions. But when Gordon offered
Burgoyne a shilling to lay out Hazlitt, although he said it was a
bargain, he meant nothing at all by his offer. He knew that Burgoyne,
once he got on the field, could think of nothing but the game, and would
forget all about Hazlitt and himself. Everyone offered bribes, but no
one had been known to receive a penny of them. Still, Buller could not
be expected to know this. He saw in the affair a menace to the future of
Fernhurst sport. Jack's story might be only idle chatter, or it might
have some foundation. At any rate he had got to go to the bottom, and
sift out the truth for the good of Fernhurst.

After evening chapel on the Sunday before the match the Chief sent for
Gordon; when Gordon arrived he found Harding, the head of the House,
there too. The Chief looked worried. There was a row in prospect. Gordon
racked his brain to think of anything that could possibly have been
found out about him. Of course there were many old troubles that might
have been raked up. He had always realised that the hand of the past
would still be near the shoulder of the present. Yet, what had he been
doing recently?

"Isn't Hazelton coming, Harding?" The Chief was speaking.

"Yes, sir; but I believe he is collecting chapel cards."

Hazelton too. Complications, forsooth. There was an awkward pause. Then
Hazelton came in, quite at his ease.

"Sir, the chapel cards; and I believe you wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ah, yes, Hazelton; put the cards on my desk. Now, Caruthers, I want to
ask you a question before the head and captain of the House that I hope
you will answer truthfully. Did you offer a boy in Mr Christy's house
money to 'lay out,' I believe that was the phrase, a boy in Mr Buller's
house in the recent house match."

Gordon thought for a moment. Had he? It was quite likely he had; but he
could not remember. Then the scene came back. The crowd in front of the
pavilion. Burgoyne: Hazlitt in the offing.

"Yes, sir," he replied, after the instant's hesitation.

"You seem rather doubtful about it."

"Well, sir, I was trying to remember whether I had or not."

The Chief was nettled by such apparent callousness.

"You talk as if you were in the habit of offering such rewards. Are
you?"

"Well, sir, it is the sort of thing any fellow might do."

"That is neither here nor there. I doubt the truth of your statement
very much. But even if the school had become so generally demoralised as
you suggest, that would not be any excuse for you. As a matter of fact,
how much did you offer the boy?"

"A shilling, sir."

"Was that a genuine offer, now? If he had done what you wanted him to,
would you have paid him?"

Gordon was now well out of his depth. Explanation seemed impossible. Had
the offer been genuine? He supposed it had. If the tick had been laid
out, Gordon would have been so delighted that he would have stood the
whole of Christy's drinks all round.

"Yes, sir," he said quite cheerfully.

A smile that rose to Hazelton's lips was instantly suppressed.

"Ah! rather like hiring assassins in the cheap novelettes. What was your
idea? Did you think Hazlitt would have been a help to the School side?"

"No, sir. I hardly think he would have been of much assistance to them."

The idea of Hazlitt being of any use to anyone was very amusing. Gordon
always saw the funny side of everything. As a ghost, he would probably
have found something cynically amusing in his own funeral.

"Then you did it merely out of spite, I suppose. Do you consider that
the football field is a suitable opportunity for the paying-off of old
scores?"

Now, suppose Gordon had poured out the story of how Felston had sworn to
lay him out in the Three Cock, and how Hazlitt and others had flung the
words "Three Cock" into his face for half a term, it would have been
certainly an extenuation. But he realised that Hazelton was present. It
would not be the proper thing, it would indeed be unpardonable cheek,
for him to talk in the presence of the House captain as though his
chances of playing in the Three Cock were to be taken for granted. It
would be madness to imperil his chances on the football field, merely
because he wanted an excuse for a silly little row.

And so he did not answer.

"Well, Caruthers, I sha'n't want you any more. Thank you for being so
frank in the matter. As far as I can see, it is the only extenuating
circumstance. Harding, Hazelton, one minute."

Gordon returned to the studies amused rather than disconcerted. He quite
saw that the Chief, with his high ideals, would refuse to allow two
blacks to make a white, even if that black were of the grey-black shade
of which colour boys were allowed to get their school suits made, and
which produced anything from light grey to dark brown. He understood and
respected the Chief's point of view entirely. But with "the Bull" he was
furious. No one but "the Bull" could have reported him; and, "the Bull"
after all, was an old Fernhurstian. He knew the school customs, and
unless his memory was decaying, must have remembered the wild way in
which boys boast. He must have known it; but "for the sake of
Fernhurst," Buller would say, "this leprosy has to be rooted out."
Gordon began to wonder whether it was really a love of Fernhurst that
was his standard for all actions, or simply a supreme egotism, which
embraced alternately his own interest, his house's interest, and
Fernhurst's interest, but never, under any circumstances, never the
School House interest!

Hazelton thought much the same. At the Chief's request he made a
characteristic speech to the House after prayers.

"Someone who imagines himself a sportsman, and who refuses to disclose
his name, but whose identity we can only guess at, has been making some
silly remarks about certain play and behaviour in the House. Of course
that is all rot. But people have strange ideas, especially those in
authority, and we have to be very careful. So for heaven's sake don't go
shouting out that you are going to lay everyone out. It only means a
row, and, after all, you can do it just as well without talking about
it."

There was a roar of laughter; the old system survived.

Next morning in break Gordon passed Buller on his way to the tuck-shop.
"The Bull" cut him dead.

The day after, the Chief having made up his mind on the matter, told
Gordon that his Sixth Form privileges had been taken away.

Before a large crowd, in full view of Chief's study window, Gordon that
afternoon burnt his straw hat with the Sixth form ribbon on it, and
stood over the smouldering ashes proclaiming in tragic tones: "The glory
has departed from Israel." His old passion for a theatrical piece of
rodomontade was not yet subdued.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a short time Gordon was rather worried about "l'affaire Hazlitt," as
Tester called it. But he soon forgot it entirely in the excitement of
the approaching match. Everyone talked about it; there was no other
topic of conversation. The night before the match Lovelace could not sit
still for a minute. He strode up and down the study murmuring to
himself: "We can't lose; we can't; we can't!" Someone looked in to ask
if he was going to prepare the Livy.

"Livy?" he gasped. "Who could do any work the night before a house
match?"

The someone retired discomforted.

"You know it's absurd," Lovelace went on, "for a master to imagine
anyone could do work when the house matches are on. The other day
Claremont had me up and asked me why my work had been so bad lately. I
told him that the house matches were so exciting that I could not
concentrate my mind on anything else. He looked at me vacantly and said:
'Well, are they really? I don't know whom they excite; they don't excite
me.'"

"Dear old poseur; he's keen enough on his own house," Gordon answered
drowsily from the depths of the hammock, in which he had almost fallen
asleep. He felt incapable of thought. For weeks he had looked forward to
the match, and now it was so close he felt strangely languorous, tired
in brain and body.

Rain fell steadily all night, and though it cleared off about break, the
ground was already under water. It was a cold, gusty day.

By lunch the whole House was unbalanced. There was much loud laughter,
then sudden silences; an atmosphere of restlessness lay over everyone.
Very slowly the minutes dragged by. Gordon sat silent in a far corner of
the pavilion. At last the whistle blew, the magenta and black jerseys
trailed out on to the field. A cheer rose from the line.

The next hour passed in a whirl of white jerseys, gradually turned black
with mud, of magenta forms dashing on to the School forwards, of wild,
inarticulate black insects bawling on the touch-line. The pervading
impression was mud. Everything was mud; he was mud, the ball was mud.
Lovelace was indistinguishable. His own voice leading the scrum seemed
strangely unreal. There was a vague feeling of disquiet when, early in
the first half, he found himself standing under the posts, while the
Buller's half placed the ball for Whitaker to convert. Nothing tangible;
then the disquiet passed, the magenta jerseys swept forward, dirty white
forms came up and went down before them. Morgan rolled over the line. A
kick failed. Half-time came, Hazelton came on, and said a lot of things
to him, which he answered unconsciously.

A whistle blew. Once more the magenta jerseys swept everything before
them. There seemed no white jerseys at all. Numberless times he watched
Lovelace taking the place kick. He thought he heard Mansell shrieking:
"Heave it into them! Well done! Now you've got them!" Once he had a
sensation of kicking the ball past the halves; he seemed clear, the
full-back rushed up and fell in front of him, the ball stopped for a
second, then rolled on. He heard someone coming up behind him; the line
grew dimly white under his feet; he fell on the ball; there was a roar
of cheering. The whistle went in short, sharp blasts. The game was over.

And then he realised that the House had won, that his hopes were
satisfied, that the Buller crowd had been routed, that the cup would
shimmer on the mantelpiece. A wave of wild exultation came over him. The
House poured over the touch-line, yelling and shouting. It was all "a
wonder and a wild desire."

Then came the glorious reaction, "the bright glory of after battle
wine." The tea in the tuck-shop. They were out of training. Then the
perfect laziness of lying full-length in his hammock, talking of the
splendid victory. Then came the House tea. It was much like the Roman
triumph. The whole House sat in their places ten minutes before six.
Tablecloths were removed; everyone took down heavy books, boots, sticks.
Then when the Abbey struck six, Lovelace led the side into hall, up to
the dais, to the Sixth Form table. Everyone shouted, roared, beat the
tables. Dust arose. It was very hard to breathe. The Chief came and made
a speech. There was more shouting, more shrieking, more beating of
tables.

At last hall came with its gift of real rest. Gordon lay in the hammock,
Lovelace reposed with his feet on the table. Everyone came in to
congratulate them. Hazelton invited them in second hall to supper in the
games study; the gramophone played rag-time choruses. Gordon sang all of
them. Everyone was gloriously, unutterably happy.

Meredith sent a wire: "Well done, House: now for the Two Cock."

In the dormitory Hazelton was talking over the match.

"By Jove, when that side is the Three Cock, we shall win by fifty
points. Lord, I do envy you, Caruthers! You will see the day, and be in
at the finish. I shall only shout from the touch-line." And he added:
"My God, I shall shout, too."

There was nothing to mar the extreme joyousness of life. The world lay
at Gordon's feet. He had only to stoop to pick it up.



CHAPTER V: DUAL PERSONALITY


The Two Cock was always played a fortnight after the Thirds, and during
that fortnight the outhouses had to play off among themselves three
preliminary rounds. For them it was a remarkably strenuous time. The two
best outhouses sides had, in fact, to play four house matches in twelve
days. But it was possible for the School House to take things easily for
at least half a week. And these three days out of training meant a lot
to Gordon and others, who would have to play not only in the Two Cock,
but most probably in the Three Cock as well. It prevented staleness;
and staleness was the great danger that all outhouse sides had to face.

The week after the Thirds was regarded as a fairly slack time
before the strenuous week that culminated in the Two Cock. There
would probably be only one game--on the Saturday; and that a short
quarter-of-an-hour-each-way affair. It was usually a quite uneventful
time. This term, however, an occurrence took place that had a big effect
on the growth of Gordon's character.

Finnemore had caught influenza; the Chief had to go for a week to
Oxford. The Sixth was at a loose end. Various masters took it in various
subjects, or at least were supposed to. Most of the week was spent in
the studies, as the master in charge forgot to turn up.

One afternoon, Ferrers was to take them in English. But Ferrers was
engaged in writing an article on the "New Public School Boy" for _The
Cornhill Magazine_, and wanted to be quiet. He sent the form to their
studies to write an essay on a typical Ferrers subject: "Poetry is in
the first instance the outpouring of a rebel." It had to be shown up by
six o'clock.

Gordon revelled in it. During the long afternoon he poured out his
fierce soul. His life was now a strange paradox. Half the time he
thought of poetry, worshipping any sort of rebellion against the
conventional standards of living. At other times he was like the
ordinary Philistine, blindly worshipping games, never seeing that they
led nowhere, and were as a blind alley. This afternoon Gordon forgot
everything but Swinburne, Byron, Rossetti, and the poets of revolt. He
stigmatised Wordsworth as a doddering old man, not knowing that his
return to nature was the greatest revolution in English literature. In a
text-book he saw Shelley described as a rebel. He got a copy of his
works out of the library, but found little there resembling the work of
his own favourite. However, he quoted a verse out of _O World, O Life, O
Time!_ and decided to search more deeply later on. The bulk of the essay
was a glowing eulogy of _The Hymn to Proserpine_ and _Don Juan_. It was
very dogmatic, very absurd in parts, but it had the merit of enthusiasm,
and, at any rate, showed a genuine appreciation of a certain class of
literature.

Well satisfied, he made his way across to the Sixth Form room, and found
Ferrers gazing at a pile of papers, as Hercules must have gazed at the
Augean stables.

"Um," said Ferrers, "who are you?"

"Caruthers, sir. I have brought you the essay you set the Sixth."

"Right; let's have a look at it; hope it is better than the stuff I have
just been reading."

"Yes, yes, um--ah," he murmured to himself, as he read on. There was
clearly some hankering after style, some searching for an idea. Ferrers
dearly wanted to smile at the attack on Wordsworth, and the comparison
between Swinburne and Milton (whom Gordon had never read), all in favour
of the Pre-Raphaelite. But he knew that it would be a fatal thing to do;
it would seem superior; the master must come down to the boy's level. He
read on to the end of the wild, sprawling peroration.

"Not bad stuff, Caruthers, not bad at all. Far and away better than
anything I have so far struck. I must talk to you again about this; I am
glad you love Byron; I do myself; people run him down--fools, that is.
You stick to Byron, he is all right. And don't despise the rest too
much. Have a shot at Keats and Shelley. They are not so powerful, but
good all the same, very fine stuff.... Try _The Pot of Basil_. Must rush
off now. Are you in training? No! Not yet. Right. Come up to tea
to-morrow. Good-night."

And thus began a friendship that was the most permanent in Gordon's
school career.

Every Friday he used to climb up the hill past Rogers's house, and step
out down the white London road to Ferrers's cosy little home. Over a cup
of tea he read an essay. Ferrers would lie back listening, and then
discuss it with him. He sometimes blamed the actual expression of it,
but he never found fault on questions of taste. He let Gordon browse at
will in the fields of English literature; he suggested books he thought
Gordon would like; he did not try to rush him on. There was heaps of
time; he would let Gordon develop on his own lines.

From these evenings Gordon derived a pleasure that he found it hard to
explain. He was thankful to get away from the footer talk, the
inevitable intrigues, scandals, all in fact that went to form the daily
curriculum. The world of ideas was far more attractive. Ferrers,
although himself a quarter-mile Blue, looked upon games as a recreation,
and upon school life as a mud-heap that had to be washed clean. Poetry,
drama, the modern novel, these were what Ferrers loved; and Gordon was
glad to find someone who thought like this. He felt uplifted after his
talks with Ferrers, he walked back to the House buoyant, as it were on
wings. Then as the school gates rose before him, and he heard the sound
of a football bouncing in the court, the old routine caught him once
more. He plunged into the old life with the same zest. He devised a new
scheme for avoiding work, thought out an idea for teaching forwards to
heel, laughed, discussed athletics and was well content. He tried to
analyse his feelings, but could not. He was now two separate persons. At
times he was the dreamer, the lover of art and poetry; at another the
politician, the fighter who lived every minute of his life deeply to the
full, with one fixed aim before him. Gordon wondered if this apparent
paradox in himself was in any way an answer of the enigma that an
artist's life so frequently was utterly different from the broad
outlines of his work. Browning had talked of a man having "two
soul-sides." Had he two soul-sides, one for the world, the other for
art--and Ferrers? But then Browning had spoken contemptuously of the
"one to face the world with." Surely games were as good as poetry? Or
weren't they, after all? He felt an unanswerable doubt, and at such
times of introspection he would stop trying to think and merely let
himself be carried on in whatever course fortune chose to bear him. And
so the Jekyll and Hyde business went on.



CHAPTER VI: THE GAMES COMMITTEE


In the mud and the rain the School House Two Cock team, coming up early
from a puntabout, joined the crowd watching the last stages of the
Buller's _v._ Claremont's house match, and cheered Claremont's to the
echo. It was a remarkably fine game. When "no side" was called, the
score was nine all. Extra time was played, and just before the close,
amid great enthusiasm, a limping Claremont's forward fell over the line
from the line out. None shouted louder than the School House contingent.
Everyone had grown tired of the Buller's domination. They had been
successful too long. For two years they had not lost a single house
match. The Thirds had been their first reverse; but even then they had
triumphed over all their outhouse opponents. This was the first
occasion, since Gordon had been at Fernhurst, that the Buller's colours
had been lowered by an outhouse side. It signified the breaking up of
their rule. Gordon shouted like the Vengeance following the tumbrils. He
roared loudly under "the Bull's" nose, stamped off the field to tea,
without a thought of the effect that his demonstration might have had
upon "the Bull" himself.

As it happened, to "the Bull" the incident meant a lot.

"What is the reason of it?" he said to Felston that evening. "How have I
made these School House men, and especially Caruthers, hate me? They
seem to delight in the defeat of my house. Of course, I can understand
their wanting their house to beat mine, but why should they worry so
much about Claremont's doing so? I can't understand it; and Caruthers
will be leading the school scrum in two years. We must not have bad
feeling between the houses. Honest rivalry is all right; but there seems
so much spite about it all nowadays. It was not so when I was a boy, and
it wasn't so three years ago. I don't understand."

A climax was reached in the Two Cock, a match rendered famous in
Fernhurst history by the amazing refereeing of a new master named
Princeford, who had come as a stop-gap for one term. The match was
played in the mud and slush, and was entirely devoid of incident. The
play rolled from one end of the ground to the other. Archie performed
prodigies of valour; Gordon did some brilliant things; Collins was quite
fierce; but good football was impossible under the circumstances. Early
in the first half, amid tremendous cheering, Lovelace scored a fine try,
by the touch-line. There was no doubt about it. The school lined up
behind the posts. But Princeford would have none of it. He came up,
fussing and important:

"No try, there. Knock on. Scrum!"

A gasp went up from both sides. Was the man blind?

"What is the fool talking about?" thundered Gordon.

Princeford was round in a second: "Who said that?"

Gordon stepped forward.

"Ah, I shall remember you."

The game continued; the outhouses amazed at such luck; the School House
sullen and indignant. The play developed into a series of forward rushes
resulting in nothing. It was an amazingly dull game to watch. From one
of these rushes Gordon got clear; the full-back fell on the ball, Gordon
took a huge kick at the ball. One had to kick hard on such a sticky
ground. He missed the ball, and caught the back on the side of the head.

"Oh, damned sorry," he said.

It was quite unintentional, as would have been obvious to anyone who
knew anything about the game. No one would be fool enough to kick the
man, when by kicking the ball he might score a try. But Princeford was
on Gordon like a shot. He began to lecture him before all the masters on
unsportsmanlike play, and threatened to send him off the field. Gordon
glowered at him. It was a combat of temperaments. The game resulted in a
draw. No try was scored. It was a dull performance, occasionally
relieved by individual brilliance. Everyone was disappointed.

Sullen and silent, the House side trooped up to tea. They had won the
match, of that there was no doubt. And they had been done out of their
victory.

The limit was reached when, muddy and cold, they found that the new
boot-boy had forgotten to heat the boiler, and there was only cold water
to wash in.

The changing-room was filled with the sound of oaths and curses.

But when the effects of Princeford's refereeing and the boot-boy's
forgetfulness had worn off slightly, the House felt more content. After
all, they had not been beaten. They had got the cup for half the year at
any rate. Things might be worse. And when in hall that night Hazelton
gave him his House cap, all Gordon's rage was overwhelmed by the feeling
that his dearest object had been achieved. The boot-boy was forgiven;
Princeford faded into the background of insignificance from which he had
temporarily emerged.

But the matter did not end there: other fingers were itching to be in
the pie. Christy and Rogers, walking up from the field together, came to
the conclusion that that incorrigible nuisance Caruthers had disgraced
Fernhurst football. Princeford was a master from Sedbury; he had only
come for one term as a special concession, because his headmaster was a
great friend of the Chief. What sort of an impression would he carry
away of Fernhurst manners and sportsmanship, if Caruthers should be
allowed to go unpunished, not only for playing a deliberately foul game,
but also for using most foul language? And so these two, neither of whom
knew anything about football, while both were immensely aware of their
own importance, made their way to "the Bull's" study to pour out their
grievances. "The Bull" was laid up with influenza, and had been
prevented from watching the match. They found him lying on his sofa. For
over an hour they elaborated the tale of Gordon's misconduct.

They pointed out that the object of house matches was to promote a
keenness in school football, and to provide interest for those who were
not good enough to get into the school team. The School House had for
years during the Easter term isolated itself from the rest of the
school. It had considered itself as apart, a school in itself. Such an
attitude militated against _esprit de corps_; it made the house appear
more important than the school. It led to bad feeling between houses. In
Caruthers were developed all the worst faults of this system. His
keenness for his house had so far drowned his affection for his school
that he used any tactics to reach his end. He took defeat in an
unsportsmanlike manner. This afternoon's play had made this clear. And
what was worst of all was that Caruthers had a sufficient personality to
attract others. "Moths are always attracted by the flame," said Rogers
pompously. If Caruthers were dealt with effectively at once, this
poisonous School House notion of its own importance would collapse. Was
it going to be put an end to? That was the question they put to Mr
Buller; and they took over an hour in putting it.

"The Bull" listened to all they had to say, and as soon as they began
repeating themselves, and he realised they had given all the information
they could, told them he had now to dress for dinner, but that he would
consider the matter carefully and let them know his opinion later on.
Like two obsequious courtiers before an Eastern monarch, Rogers and
Christy bowed themselves out, inarticulate with advice and last words.

"The Bull" smiled. He was too big a man to be taken in by such obvious
hypocrisy. These men amused him greatly, especially because they both
thought he took them seriously. But, for all that, he saw that there was
a good deal of truth in what they had said. He wished he had been at the
game himself. It was so hard to form an estimate on the strength of
partial onlookers. Princeford's refereeing might have been exasperating;
but, damn it, even if it had, a sportsman should not make a fuss about
it! It was all part of the game. But Caruthers did not treat a House
match as a game, but as the real business of life. That was what
rankled. Caruthers would laugh when he dropped a catch in a Colts match,
or missed his collar on the upper; but in a House match his face would
be set, his eyes wide and eager. Humour had for the moment ceased to
exist, as far as he was concerned. He clearly preferred his house to his
school. Was he stirring up any feeling between the outhouses and the
School House? He remembered an occasion terms back when Gordon in a
House game had shouted out: "Let the swine have it." Then, again, there
was that affair of bribing Burgoyne to lay out one of his men. And then
the incident this afternoon. Outwardly he was doing his very best to
separate the interests of his house from those of the school, to split
Fernhurst into two factions. But supposing, after all, these were merely
outward signs, supposing Gordon's excessive keenness, coupled with the
rash hotheadedness of youth, led him where his cooler judgment would
have checked him. If that were so, and if strong measures were taken,
might not his keenness change into a hatred of Fernhurst, might it not
lead him to open antagonism with the rest of the school? Punishment
might merely inflame and not crush him, while if his feelings were only
the natural effervescence of youth, they would wear down in time, and
then all would be well. Yet he realised that it is the things which show
that count in this world, a man is judged not by what he is, but by what
he appears to be. Everything pointed to the belief that Gordon was
working against the interests of Fernhurst; whether he actually meant to
do so or not was immaterial. He had to be dealt with as if it was
deliberate. It might be hard on him, but it was not the interests of the
individual, but of the community, that had to be considered.

"The Bull" sent for Akerman, the school captain, after chapel on Sunday
morning.

"Akerman, I want to speak to you about Caruther's behaviour in the Two
Cock yesterday afternoon. Of course, I did not see what happened, but
from what I have heard I think measures ought to be taken. It is a
serious matter. Light measures are no good. I know Caruthers; you have
got to crush him, or he will laugh at you. I think what is required is a
thrashing from the Games Committee. He is bound to be awed by the
disapproval of a body representing Fernhurst football. I suppose now
that the Games Committee wouldn't raise any objection? What about
Hazelton?"

"Well, sir, Hazelton went to the matron last night, and they discovered
he had got mumps. I just passed him on the way to the sanatorium."

"Um! That means there is no School House representative. There must be
one. It would not do for it to appear a school thing, got up against a
School House boy. It would only help to alienate the two parties still
more. Let's see, who is the next senior man in the School House?"

"Pilcher, sir."

Pilcher was one of those people who, though quite efficient at
everything--he was in the Upper Sixth--pass through the school without
leaving any mark behind them. He was outside three-quarter, and was well
worth his place in the side, but he was in no way a blood. He was never
seen. He was always in his study. His was a blameless, uneventful
career.

"He won't raise any objection, will he?"

"I shouldn't think so, sir."

Akerman had difficulty in not smiling.

"Very well, then, you had better call a meeting of the Games Committee
this afternoon and talk over the matter. If anyone makes a fuss, say I
agree with it; and I expect it will be all right."

There was no need, however, for any recourse to the oracle. The Games
Committee consisted of the captains of each house. None of them cared
the least what happened to Caruthers; he was nothing to them. Pilcher
supposed it was all right. The grand remonstrance was passed.

On Monday at twelve-thirty Gordon was summoned by a fag to attend in the
school library. The six members of the Games Committee sat around a
circular table on which lay two canes. It all looked very impressive.

Akerman rose. He began to read a speech off a piece of school paper.
Gordon had wondered why he had been so very energetic in taking down
notes during the Chief's divinity lecture that morning. The speech went
on. It was full of the inevitable platitudes about _esprit de corps_ and
a sportsmanlike spirit. Now and then Akerman stumbled, and had some
difficulty in reading his own writing. If there had not hung over him
the prospect of a very severe beating, Gordon would have enjoyed himself
thoroughly. Akerman was so pricelessly absurd. The rest looked painfully
self-conscious. Why could not Akerman have learnt his speech? It was so
bad that he could not imagine anyone having any difficulty in making it
up as he went along. Akerman was afraid of expressing an opinion. He
prefaced every remark with "Mr Buller says." It gave a sense of
security. The speech ended; everyone except Gordon was relieved.

"Bend over there."

The beating was not so horrible an ordeal as he had expected. In the
same spirit in which the outhouse captains had raised no objection,
merely because they did not care in the least what happened to Gordon,
so now they did not take any particular trouble to hurt him. The ordeal
was rather a fiasco.

A halting oration had led to an even tamer execution. As Gordon walked
down the library steps he was painfully aware of having been the
principal character in a scene of sustained bathos. The body that
represented Fernhurst football had scarcely risen to the dignity of its
trust.

       *       *       *       *       *

And then a sudden wave of feeling swept over him; and he saw the
horrible unfairness of the whole thing. It did not matter that Akerman
had made himself utterly ludicrous, or that the rest of the Games
Committee had been led to carry out a programme which they knew to be
hypocritical. It was the spirit that mattered. And at the back of it all
moved "the Bull" pulling the strings. In front of the School House
porch, clearly, dispassionately, Gordon put his case.

"I know when I play football I get a bit excited; I know my feet fly all
over the place. They did that ever since I was a baby. I know I
sometimes lose my temper. But I have been like that always. I have
played the same game in the Thirds, and in the Colts, my first term and
yesterday. But nobody said anything then. Do you remember the Milton
match? I went a bit far then: I was fearfully ashamed of myself
afterwards; I thought my play had been a disgrace to the school. But did
'the Bull' think so? Good Lord, no. He gave the side a jaw, and said
that they were a disgrace to the school, with the exception of me! I
played hard and all that, while the rest slacked and funked! I was
singled out for praise in the roughest game I have ever played. And now
what happens? The House begins to win its matches; 'the Bull' sees his
house losing cup after cup. He and Akerman and the other fools think
something must be done. So they wait for an opportunity and then give me
a Games Committee beating, to try and frighten the rest of the House.
They talked about my unsportsmanlike play. They did not mind when I
played rough against Milton. Oh dear, no! But when they find their own
dirty shins being hacked, they sit up and shriek. And they wait till
Hazelton stops out, too!"

Everyone agreed with him. From Dan to Beersheba there was but one
opinion. Buller had not been playing the game. The authorities were
against them. The House would have to cling together to protect its
rights. They could not have Buller trampling on them, dictating terms.
He had begun the contest; they would be prepared for him next time. An
aura of antagonism overhung the grey studies. Members of Buller's house
were dealt with in the sweeping delineation of "the swine across the
road." For the rest of the term, every time Princeford passed the School
House on his way to the common room, a whistle blew from the dark
recesses of the studies, and some voice shouted: "No try; off-side!"
"The Bull" himself was looked on with a general suspicion. The
inevitable had happened. "The Bull" in his attempt to sacrifice the
individual to the community had forgotten that the community is at the
mercy of the individual. The world is composed of a number of
individuals round whom parties and nations cling. "The Bull" had made an
attack on the individual, and the community that Gordon represented took
up his attitude of defiance, strengthening his resolve not to give way,
to keep the House independent of the tyranny that drew five outhouses
together as one. The House was not to be coerced. Its members would be
free to think, to do, to speak as they thought best. From that moment
Gordon took the interests of the House and not Fernhurst as the standard
by which to judge all his thoughts and actions.

And so it happened that just at this moment, when the House was bubbling
over with suppressed wrath, a chance was given them of showing their
independence and defiance.



CHAPTER VII: REBELLION


On the Wednesday after the Games Committee's activities in the library,
Ferrers banged into Betteridge's study, his arms laden with books. There
was a Stoics meeting on the next Saturday, and the card drawn up at the
beginning of the term announced that there would be a reading of _Arms
and the Man_, by Bernard Shaw. But Ferrers, who was now president, never
took any notice of the programme, which he invariably altered a day or
two before the meeting. This imposed a considerable strain on those who
had to get up fresh parts and prepare different speeches at a second's
notice. But as the alterations were nearly always an improvement no one
minded.

"Sorry, Betteridge--had to change Stoics' thing. Just picked up
this--_Younger Generation_, by Stanley Houghton--ordered fifteen copies
from Sidgwick & Jackson--good publishers. Do you know them? I've marked
our parts--here they are--no more time. Good-night."

He was gone in a second. And the unfortunate secretary was left with the
lot of distributing copies and drawing up fresh notices. It was just on
lock-up, so there was no time to do anything till the next day. He
settled himself down to read the play. In a very short while he was
thoroughly engrossed; by the time he had reached the end of the first
act he had no doubt that Saturday would witness the most successful
meeting of the Stoics since the historic occasion when Macdonald and
Rogers had been persuaded to speak on opposite sides on "Trade
Unionism," and Rogers had been most gloriously routed.

Betteridge went in search of Tester and Gordon.

"Come up to my study and read a play Ferrers has got hold of for the
Stoics. It's glorious stuff."

"All right," said Gordon. "I will go and fetch Rudd."

"For God's sake, don't bring that outsider."

"Oh, hell, why not? He is quite respectable; and, after all, he is one
of the best of our regular readers."

"All right then: fetch him along."

Since their scandalous ramble Gordon had become more or less friends
with Rudd, and had to a large extent helped to make his life more
bearable.

The four sat silent, reading the play. There was occasionally a
suppressed laugh: otherwise no one spoke at all.

In under an hour they had all finished.

"Jolly good," said Gordon. "I do like seeing this younger generation up
against the rotten conventions of the mid-Victorian era."

"Deal gently with them," murmured Betteridge. "Their horsehair
arm-chairs have stood the test of time very well."

"Too well: but their Puritan ideas are in the melting-pot now. Their day
is over."

"You know I am not sure that the Stoics is the right audience for a play
like this," said Tester.

"Good heavens, man," protested Gordon, "you don't think it would corrupt
their morals, do you?"

"Of course not, you ass! I don't think they would understand it: that's
all. They will laugh at it, and think it funny. But they won't really
see what Houghton is driving at. They won't understand that he is trying
to cut away the shackles of mature thought that are impeding the limbs
of youth. The lads in the Remove will be frightfully amused; they will
think the father an awful old fool, and the son the devil of a rip. They
won't see that both of them are real characters, and that a hundred
families to-day are working out their own little tragedy just on these
very lines."

"But surely there are really no fathers quite so absurd as old Kennion.
Does not Houghton exaggerate the type, as Dickens exaggerates all his
types?"

"Oh no, he's real enough; I expect there are a good many like him living
in Fernhurst now."

The truth of the last remark was brought home three days later.

On the Friday before the debate Ferrers got a bad attack of influenza.
There would be no one to take the chair. Moved by an instinct of
courtesy, Ferrers wrote to Christy a little note, enclosing the book,
and asking him to preside.

On Saturday morning Christy went up to Betteridge in break.

"Ah, Betteridge, Mr Ferrers has asked me to take the chair at the
Stoics. Well, I myself would not be present when such a play was read.
It is aimed at the very roots of domestic morality. It might do very
well in a small circle of Senior boys. But it would have a very serious
effect on young boys who are not as mature as you or I are. None of my
house will attend; and, from a conversation I had with Mr Rogers and Mr
Claremont, I am fairly certain they will not allow their houses to go
either. It would be really much better to wait until Mr Ferrers is well
again before anything is done. It would be quite easy to postpone the
meeting, I suppose."

"Oh yes, sir, of course."

Betteridge was not paying much attention: he was thinking hard. The bell
for school rang.

"That will be all right then, Betteridge."

"Quite, thank you, sir."

Christy, bubbling with satisfaction, rushed off to tell the head of
Buller's that the meeting had been postponed. Things were turning out
well for him. He had obtained the beating of Caruthers, and now he had
most distinctly scored off Ferrers. He did not stop to think that both
these campaigns had been carried on behind his enemy's back.

But in his moment of triumph over Ferrers he did not pause to think
whether he had also triumphed over the School House spirit of antagonism
which he himself had stirred up.

During the half-hour between morning school and lunch, Betteridge,
Tester and Gordon held a council of war.

"Of course, whatever we do," said Betteridge, "is bound to be in the
nature of farce. Three houses, you see, won't turn up at all,
Abercrombie's hardly ever sends anyone, and I don't mind betting that
Christy gets round 'the Bull' somehow."

"Yes; but, confound it all," said Gordon, "are we going to be dictated
to by these outhouse potentates? The Stoics is more a School House
society than anything else; and, what's more, it is going to remain so.
These outhouse men can come or go if they want to. It does not matter to
us. Let us read this play with a School House cast, carry the thing
through somehow, and show these fools like Christy what we think of
them. Now is our chance of proving our independence."

"Won't there be a hell of a row, though?" said Betteridge reluctantly.

"What if there is, man?" said Gordon. "We can't help that. Somehow or
other that play is going to be read. Let this evening be a symbol of the
House's attitude. These houses have flung down the glove. They beat our
forwards when we win matches, and they try and stop our meetings. Damn
it, we'll pick up the glove!"

"Yes," shouted Gordon, "and fling it in their snivelling faces."

Betteridge drew up a huge notice of the meeting after hall and posted it
on the school board. It ran as follows:

     In spite of the fact that many of the usual readers will be
     prevented from attending the Second Meeting of the Stoics this
     term, the Society will read, at seven-thirty, in the School
     House Reading Room,

     _THE YOUNGER GENERATION_

     BY STANLEY HOUGHTON

     Cast ....

     (_Signed_) C.P. BETTERIDGE.

That evening was historic. Every member of the School House attended the
meeting, the members of the day-room as well as those from the studies.
The reading-room was packed. It was a record meeting. The reading was
erratic. Parts were forced at the eleventh hour on reluctant and totally
unsuitable persons. But somehow or other they got through it in the end;
and that was all that mattered.

But still it was not without a little nervousness that the conspirators
awaited developments. Christy saw the notice and fumed. Ferrers heard of
it and laughed. Rogers rushed to the Chief palpitating with rage.

After lunch the Chief sent for Betteridge, and asked for a copy of _The
Younger Generation_. There was an air of nervous anticipation pervading
the studies. Just before tea the Chief sent for Betteridge again.

"A very interesting play. Very modern, of course, but extremely clever.
Thank you so much for lending it me. I wish I had been at the reading. A
record attendance, I hear. Well, ask me to come next time you get as
good a play as that."

There was no reference to the outhouse boycott. The Chief was very
tactful, and, moreover, he had enjoyed reading the play immensely.
Besides, it would not have done any good if he had made a fuss,
especially when he was entirely in sympathy with Betteridge.

In _The Fernhurst School Magazine_, which was edited by Betteridge,
there appeared the following paragraph:--

     "On Saturday, 5th March, before a record and appreciative
     audience, the Stoics read _The Younger Generation_, by Stanley
     Houghton. There was no one who failed to realise the
     extraordinary insight into the life of the day that made such a
     work possible. The enthusiasm and applause were highly
     significant, as showing what a keen interest the school is
     taking in all questions of social and domestic life. There were
     rather fewer representatives from the outhouses than usual, but
     this was as well, as there would have been little room for
     them."

The victory of Christy was not so very complete after all.

With this successful demonstration Gordon's excitement in House politics
abated.



CHAPTER VIII: THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS


The Three Cock came and went, bringing with it House caps for Lovelace,
Collins and Fletcher, but it caused little stir. Everyone had foreseen
the result, and without Hazelton (ill with mumps) the House stood little
chance of keeping the score under fifty. Hostilities were declared
closed for the time being. The four weeks of training for the sports
came on, and Gordon's Sixth Form privileges were restored. For a short
time the hold of athleticism was weakened, and as it weakened, the hold
of literature became more firm.

"House Caps" were always allowed a fairly slack time after the Three
Cock, and Gordon made the best of his. While the last traces of winter
were disappearing, and the evenings began to draw out into long,
lingering sunsets, he voyaged on into the unknown waters of poetry.
Keats and Shelley, names which had once meant nothing to him, now became
his living prophets. He felt his own life coloured by their
interpretations. During the days of his quest for power, when the scent
of battle had led him on, he had found inspiration only in those whose
moods coincided with his own. But now that the contest was over and
strife was merged into a temporary lull, there came a check in the fiery
search for achievements. He found pleasure in the gentler but far more
beautiful melodies of Keats. Byron and Swinburne had beaten so loudly on
their drums, and blown so forcibly on the clarion that his ears had been
deafened. But in the peaceful afterglow of satisfied desire he asked for
soft and quiet music.

During this time he saw a great deal of Ferrers. Together they discussed
all the questions that to them seemed most vital. The Public School
system came in for a great deal of abuse.

"A lot wants altering," Ferrers said. "Boys come here fresh from
preparatory schools. If they are clever and get into higher forms, they
are put among bigger boys, and they get their outlook coloured by them.
They get wrong impressions shoved into their heads, cease to think at
all, lose all sense of honesty and morality. Then the school that has
made them like this finds out what they are, and sends them away."

"By Jove, that's just what Jeffries said."

"Jeffries--who is Jeffries? I don't know him."

"He was a splendid fellow; but, like most other people, he followed the
crowd, then got caught and had to go."

"That is it; always the same. Usually the least bad are sacked, too;
never heard of a real rake getting sent away; the rakes are far too
clever. Cleverness is what counts, counts all through life. A man is
expelled only because he is not clever enough to avoid being caught, and
then the school thinks it's saving the others by sending him away. And
it does no good. The big wrong 'un stays on, only the weak one goes.
Human nature is a thing that has got to be dealt with carefully, not in
the half-hearted way it is here."

Ferrers wrote a great deal about Public Schools to the various London
papers. He was fast winning a name in the educational world. But he was
always being asked to modify his statements. He raved against the
weakness of the authorities.

"They don't want to know the truth," he said, "they are afraid to hear
it. 'Tell us lies,' that's what they say. 'Lull us into a false
security. A big bust-up is coming soon, but keep it off till after we
are gone.' They know their house is built on sand, running out into the
river. They want to barricade their own tiny houses for a little. I want
to go and search for the big firm land, but they are too comfortable on
their cushions and fine linen to dare to move. Oh, prophesy smooth
things!"

Gordon listened intently to it all. Ferrers was his ideal. Often they
would talk of books: of the modern novel; of Compton Mackenzie, in whom
idealism and realism were one; of Rupert Brooke, the coming poet, who
was to make men believe in the beauties of this earth, instead of
hankering after an immaterial hereafter; of the Elizabethan drama, of
Marlowe, Beaumont, Webster. They were very wonderful, those hours.
Gordon felt that he had at last, after wandering far, come to his
continuing city. Glancing back over his last two years, he used to laugh
and say:

"I don't regret them; I was happy; and the only thing to regret is
unhappiness. But I have outgrown them; they did not last. They were what
Stephen Phillips would number among the 'over-beautiful, quick fading
things.' They were good days, though. But I am happier now. I can see
the future spreading out before me. Next winter Hunter will be captain,
but I shall be second in the team and lead the forwards. It will be a
year of preparation. Then will come my year of captaincy. All the things
I wanted seem falling into my hands. 'Life is sweet, brother,' life is
sweet!"

And, looking back, it seemed as if in the wild orgy of Pack Monday Fair
he had finally burnt the old garments and put on the new. That day had
been the funeral pyre of his old life; and, like Sardanapalus, it had
died of its own free will. A glorious end; no anti-climax. But the
future was still more glorious. When he watched the morning sun flicker
white on the broad Eversham road from the station to the Abbey, the
leaves breaking on the lindens, the dim lights waking in the chapel on
Sunday, he saw how far he had outgrown his old self. Now he had begun to
perceive what life's aim should be--the search for beauty. Tester had
been right when he said that beauty was the only thing worth having, the
one ideal time could not tarnish. And yet Tester was not satisfied. The
hold of the world was too strong on him. He could see where others were
going wrong, but he himself was all astray, at times morbidly wretched,
at others hilarious with excitement. It was merely a question of
temperament. Gordon saw stretching before him the fulfilment of his
hopes. There was no niche for failure. His destiny would unroll smoothly
like a great machine; he was at peace, in sympathy with a world of
beautiful ideas and dreams. At times he would feel an unreasoning anger
with the Public School system, but his rage soon cooled down. After all,
it had left him at the last unscathed, and was in the future to bring
many gifts. Others might be broken on the wheel; but he was still
sufficiently an egoist, sufficiently self-centred to be indifferent to
them. He had come through, with luck perhaps, but still he had come
through. That was all that mattered. He had not read Matthew Arnold's
_Rugby Chapel_. If he had, he might have recognised himself in the
pilgrim who had saved only himself, while the world was full of others,
like the Chief, who were "bringing their sheep in their hand." But
probably even if he had read the poem at that time, he would have been
too happy, too self-contented, too successful to realise its poignant
truth. And it would not have been surprising. Youth is always intolerant
and self-centred. It is only when we grow old, and see so "little done
of all we so gaily set out to do," that we suddenly appreciate that,
even if we have ourselves failed, yet if we can by our experience help
someone else to succeed, our life will not be utterly vain. Altruism is
the philosophy of middle age.

On a few, but very few, occasions Gordon was temporarily roused out of
his secure atmosphere. One of these was on the last day of term, when a
letter appeared in _The Fernhurst School Magazine_ suggesting that the
Three Cock should be changed into a Two Cock, since the School House had
for the last few years proved itself so incapable of holding out against
the strong outhouse combination of three houses against one. Much of
what the writer said was true. The House numbered only about seventy,
while each outhouse contained some forty boys, with perhaps six day boys
attached to each. The House did not take in day boys, so that the House
was always playing against a selection from double its number. A Two
Cock would be far fairer. Nevertheless the House was furious.

"Confounded old ass," said Mansell. "I believe Claremont wrote it. Let
him wait till next year and he will see his beastly blue shirts rolled
in the mud."

"But it is such infernal swank," said Gordon. "We smashed them in the
Thirds; to all intents and purposes we routed them in the Two Cock; the
only thing the outhouses won was the Three Cock; and they are so bucked
about that that they want to clinch a victory, get up and shout: 'Look
at us, what devils of fine fellows we are! You can't touch us. Better
take charity.' Unutterable conceit! Why, we won four times running about
seven years ago. I have a good mind to go to Claremont and give it him
straight. Betteridge, you absurd ass, why did you print this thing?"

"Well, you see, there were a few rather risky things in the paper, and I
thought if I cut it out he might hack about the rest of the rag. And,
besides, it will be an awful score when we win next year, as we are
absolutely certain to. Can't you imagine the account: 'Last year some
rather foolhardy persons doubted the ability of the School House to deal
with a combined side of the best three outhouses, and they were rash
enough to express their doubts in print. But this year, under the able
captaincy of G.F. Hunter, with the forwards admirably led by G.R.
Caruthers, the House gained a thoroughly deserved victory by fifteen
points to three.' We shall crow then, my lads, sha'n't we?"

"Yes, it will be all right then," said Mansell. "My lord, I wish I was
going to be here to play in it. My governor is a fool to make me leave
and go to France."

Mansell was leaving at the end of the term.

"Well, all the same, it's a vile insult to the House," said Gordon.
"Whether he meant it or not, it's an insult."

But his annoyance passed quickly. He was far too certain of the future
to worry much about what anyone said. He was sure the House would win in
the end. It was only a question of time. And when the prize-giving came,
his anger gave way to pride. His place in form gave him little
satisfaction, for he was easily bottom of the Sixth; but after the books
had been given there came the turn of the House cups. Amid enormous
cheers Lovelace went up for the Thirds cup; amid still louder cheers he
and the outhouse captain stepped up together to receive the Two Cock
cup. Then at tea Hazelton walked into hall carrying the two trophies to
place on the mantelpiece, and the House burst forth in a roar of
cheering. It was all sheer joy; and beyond the present glory shone the
dawn of great triumphs to come. The House was just entering on its
career of success. The day of Buller's was at an end. There only
remained to them the remnants of their earlier glory. Where they had
stood the House was about to stand. And in that hour of triumph Gordon
himself would be the protagonist.

The short Easter holidays passed happily. Over the fresh grass of
Hampstead Heath Gordon wandered alone on those April mornings, when the
trees were breaking into a green splendour, when the long waters of the
Welsh Harp lay out in the morning sun like a sheet of gold. Looking
across from the firs he saw the spire of Harrow church cutting the red
sky, and the long stretch of country in between rolling out into a
panorama of loveliness. On the road to Parliament Hill he passed the
spot where Shelley found a starving woman dying in the snow, and took
her to Leigh Hunt's house to give her warmth. Near John Masefield's
house was the garden where Keats had written his immortal _Ode to a
Nightingale_. Hampstead was prodigal of associations, and they stirred
the boy's imagination like a trumpet call.

Then followed the long summer term, with its drowsy afternoons, its
white flannels, its long evening shadows creeping across the courts, its
ices, its innumerable lemonades; everything conspired to make Gordon
supremely happy. Scholastically he had at last achieved his great wish
of specialising in history; a fine-sounding programme which actually
implied that he would not need to do another stroke of work during his
Fernhurst career. Specialising in history was an elastic activity, and
might mean a few hours a week in which to read up political economy. It
might mean what Prothero made it mean--seven hours in school a week, and
the remainder pretending to read history in his study.

The grey and lifeless Finnemore superintended the history, and, like
everything else he superintended, it was scandalously neglected.
Outhouse people occasionally did a little work; School House men never.
Gordon began by taking quite modest privileges. He knew he had heaps of
time to enlarge his advantages. He started by doing one prose and one
"con" a week, instead of two proses and two "cons" like the rest of the
form. He also gave up one Latin construe book and one Greek book. That
meant about two hours a day to idle in his study. But he found it quite
easy to turn that two into three, and he was well aware that by
Christmas his daily hours of indolence would have reached five. Prothero
at the present moment was only going into school for divinity and
French, and as often as not he told his French master that he was so
much occupied with history that he could not come to French at all.
Nominally he went into school seven hours a week, actually he very
rarely went in more than three.

The method of teaching history at Fernhurst had been the same from time
immemorial. Gordon was told to buy _Modern Europe_, by Lodge, price
seven shillings and sixpence. He did not, however, put his father to
this expense. History specialists in the School House had for years used
the same book. It had once belonged to a fabulous Van Hepworth, who had
gained a History exhibition at Selwyn somewhere in the nineties.

No one knew anything of this Van Hepworth. His name was on the school
boards, but he had never been seen or heard of since he had left
Fernhurst for the romantic atmosphere of Cambridge. But he had left
behind him a name that will be remembered in the School House as long as
history is taught by Finnemore. For on his last day, in a fit of
gratitude, he had left to future historians the legacy of his history
notebook. It contained all that Finnemore knew!

Every week Finnemore set three questions to his specialists--to be done
with books. He had a stock of these questions, and Van Hepworth had
written exhaustive essays on every one of them. All that was needed was
to consult the oracle, and then copy out what he had written. Sometimes,
by way of a change, Finnemore would think of a new subject. But Gordon
would say:

"Oh, sir, I have been reading about Mary de Medici, and am very much
interested in her. I wondered if I could do a question on her."

"Of course. I always like you to do what you are interested in. Let me
see. I have a nice little question on her: 'Mary de Medici: was she an
unmixed evil?' An interesting subject which raises quite a lot of
points. And I have one more question for you. 'Compare Richelieu and
Mazarin,' an interesting little psychological study. I think you will
enjoy them."

Then Gordon would have recourse to the unfailing authority, Van
Hepworth. Sometimes he felt too slack to copy out the questions at all.
On such occasions he would simply read Van Hepworth's essay straight out
of the old, battered book.

"I hope you won't mind my reading this to you, but I was in rather a
hurry and I doubt if you could quite read my handwriting."

Finnemore would listen with the greatest interest.

"Very nice indeed, Caruthers, very sound attitude to adopt. An essay
well worth preserving. You will copy it out neatly, won't you?"

"Oh yes, sir."

Gordon wanted to institute a Van Hepworth memorial, and put up a plate
to him somewhere. But there were many obstacles to this. The Chief might
want to know more about him, and the legend had to be kept secret. In
the end he contented himself with having the book bound in full morocco,
so that it might be preserved for future generations, for already the
cardboard cover had become sadly torn. Where Van Hepworth is now, who
knows? This only is certain, that although he has most likely by now
lost all clear recollection of Fernhurst and the grey School House
studies, yet his name is remembered there to-day, with far greater
veneration and respect than was ever paid to him during the days of his
school career.

    "Let us now praise famous men,
      Men of little showing,
      For their work continueth,
      Deep and long continueth,
    Wide and far continueth, far beyond their knowing."

And so Gordon's scholastic career came to an end. He had reached the
"far border town." There would be no need to fret himself about form
orders any more. "Strong men might go by and pass o'er him"; he had
retired from the fray. While others crammed their brains with obscure
interpretations of Æschylus, he lay back reading English poetry and
English prose, striving to get a clear hold of the forces that went to
produce each movement, and incidentally doing himself far more good than
he would have done by binding himself down to the classical regime,
which trained boys to imitate, and not to strike out on their own.
Gordon had already acquired enough of the taste and sense of form which
the classics alone can provide, and which are essential to a real
culture. But he was lucky in stopping soon enough to prevent himself
being forced into a groove, from which he could only judge new movements
by the Ciceronian standards, without grasping the fact that technique
and form are merely outward coverings of genius, and not genius in
themselves.

To the other delights of this delightful term was added the sudden and
unexpected success of Gordon's cricket. For the first fortnight Gordon
found himself playing on House and Colts games. But as he gathered runs
there with ease, he was soon transplanted to the First Eleven nets,
which he thenceforward only left for a brief spell, after an attack of
chicken-pox. For a member of the School Eleven life has nothing better
to offer than a summer term. There were usually two matches a week. The
team would get off work at ten o'clock, and just as the school was
pouring out in break they would stroll leisurely down to the cricket
field. Everything, in fact, was carried out leisurely. A wonderful
atmosphere of repose hangs over a cricket field in the morning, when the
grass is still sparkling with dew, and there is silence and vast
emptiness where usually is the sound of shouting and hurrying feet.
There was the long luncheon interval, when the members of the Eleven
would wander round the field arm in arm, or lounge on the seats lazy and
contented. Gordon loved to sit in the pavilion balcony watching the
white forms change across between the overs, the red ball bounce along
the grass, the wicket-keeper whip off the bails, the umpire's finger go
up. The whole tableau was so unreal, so idealistic. Then the school
would come down after lunch with rugs and cushions, and would clamour
outside the tuck-shop for ices and ginger beer. Gordon could hardly
connect his present existence with the past two years of doubts,
uncertainties, wild excitements, hurry, bustle--never a second's peace.

One of his most perfect days was the Radley match. After a long journey,
at the very end of the day they passed through Oxford, and Gordon caught
one fleeting glimpse of those wonderful "dreaming spires," rising golden
in the dying sun. As the team walked up from Abingdon to the college,
Tester, who had at last got into the side, came up and took Gordon's
arm.

"You know, when I saw Oxford lying out there so peaceful and calm, I
thought I had at last reached the end of searching. This was my first
view of Oxford; by passing the certificate I didn't need to go up for
smalls. Thank God, I am going up there next term. I think I shall forget
all my old misgivings in so completely peaceful an atmosphere. I can't
shake off the Public School ideas yet; I am all adrift; still, I think
it will be all right there."

Gordon wondered indeed how anyone could fail to find all their dreams
realised in so secluded, so monastic a Utopia.

The next two days were supremely happy. Gordon, Lovelace and Foster were
put into the same house; and they spent half the night ragging in their
old light-hearted fashion. The match resembled most of the other
performances of that year's Eleven. The whole side was out for eighty.
Gordon hit two fours and was then leg before; Lovelace, with laborious
efforts and much use of his pads, made twenty-three and five leg byes.
But it was a sorry performance, and Radley put up over two hundred.
Fernhurst went in again; and that day Gordon and Lovelace were sent in
first.

It was an amazing performance. Gordon's cricket was, in honest fact, one
of the biggest frauds that had ever been inflicted on an opposing side.
He had three shots--a cut, a slash shot past cover, and a drive that
landed the ball anywhere from mid-wicket to over short-slip. People used
to say that he tried each of these shots in rotation. That perhaps was
hardly fair; but he invariably cut straight balls and pulled good length
balls on the off stump to the on boundary. This evening, at any rate, he
was in luck. With terrific violence he smote the Radley bowling all
round the field. Some shots went along the ground, more fell just out of
reach of a fielder. It was invigorating but hardly classic cricket.
Still, whatever it was, it produced seventy-two runs, while Lovelace had
scored three. After he left Lovelace became still more cautious. A man
from Christy's was in at the other end, who had been instructed to keep
up his end for an hour. As a matter of fact, they scored exactly two
runs between them in about half-an-hour. That two was from a drive from
Lovelace past cover.

At such daring Lovelace became much elated.

"Come on, I say, come on. Lots of runs here. Come on."

The Radley men were very amused. Lovelace took nothing seriously. It was
as well that "the Bull" was absent. Once, just as the bowler was rushing
up to bowl, Lovelace flung out his hand and said: "Stop! Move the screen
please; your hand is just behind a tree!"

With great difficulty the screens were moved.

Once he patted the ball a little way down the pitch, and shouted to the
batsman at the other end, with hand extended: "Stay!"

There was some subdued laughter.

Lovelace turned round to the wicket-keeper and said: "Strange as it may
seem, I am the worst member of this rotten side, and I am playing for my
place. This is the way to keep your place at Fernhurst."

The final achievement was a successful appeal against the light.

The next day it rained in torrents.

"Jolly rotten luck," said Lovelace, "and I was certain for a bat for
making my fifty, too."

"Do you think so?" said Tester. "You know, they don't play to a finish
in England. You are thinking of Australian rules."

Commemoration came and went, with its tea-parties, parasols, calf-bound
books, sermons and cricket match. The term drew to its close.

"This is the best term I have ever had," said Gordon. "By Jove, we have
had some good days."

Yet, of all things, that which remained clearest in his memory was one
day early in the term, when he and Lovelace were recovering from
chicken-pox. The school had gone for a field day to Salisbury, and they
were left behind with Archie Fletcher, who had been ragging Jenks, and
had been kept back for punishment, and a quantity of small fry. No work
was done. In the morning they all had to go into the big schoolroom and
hear Claremont read _Lycidas_ and parts of _Comus_.

Claremont read remarkably well, and Gordon, in an atmosphere of genial
tolerance and good humour, was able to get a clearer insight into the
real soul of the pedant of the Lower Fifth. For, shorn of his trappings,
Claremont was "a dear old fellow." Among books he had found the lasting
friendship and consolation that among his colleagues he had sought in
vain. And as he read _Comus_, in many ways the most truly poetical poem
in the English language, Gordon realised how sensitively Claremont's
heart was wrought upon by every breath of beauty.

The afternoon they had to themselves. A net was put up on the field, and
for an hour or so they beat about, regardless of science and footwork. A
relaxation was a good thing now and again. Then they went back to the
studies, and in the absence of its owner laid hold of the games study.
They had the run of it now, and, with an enormous basket of strawberries
before them, played tunes on the gramophone and roared the chorus. As
the evening fell, and the lights began to wake, Gordon and Archie stole
down to the fried fish shop, strictly out of bounds, and returned with
an unsavoury, but none the less palatable, parcel of fried fish and
chips.

It was a glorious day; they enjoyed all Fernhurst's privileges with its
restrictions removed, and when the notes of _Land of Hope and Glory_
proclaimed that the corps was marching up Cheap Street, they considered
the return to realities to be almost an intrusion on their isolated
peace.

In the last week of the term the Colts played Downside, and Gordon was
still young enough to play for them. "The Bull" went with them, and
could not have been kinder. He walked round the ground with Gordon in
the interval, as if there had been never any cause of quarrel between
them at all. They talked of books as well as cricket; and though "the
Bull's" gods were not Gordon's, there was real sympathy between them for
an hour. On the way back in the train, Gordon wondered whether, after
all, he had not been right at the beginning, when he promised to curb
his personality, and merge it into "the Bull's." What good was there in
going his own way, in fighting for what he thought right? Buller always
had had his own way, and things had gone on all right. Why should he try
and alter things? Having realised "the Bull's" faults, should he not
make allowance for them, seeing that his virtues so outnumbered his
failings? He was certainly intolerant of any other opinions but his own;
but then so was Ferrers, whom Gordon worshipped on the other side of
idolatry. The pity was that Ferrers was intolerant of the things he
hated, while Buller was intolerant of the things he admired. It was all
very difficult. For the moment he did not feel ready to come to any
decision. He was too happy to trouble himself. "Sufficient for the day
were the day's evil things." Let the future reveal itself. He would see
how things turned out.

The concert came, with its _Valete_ of many memories. The school songs
were howled out; hands crossed and swung in _Auld Lang Syne_; the
_Carmen_ nearly brought the roof down. Lying back in bed, Gordon saw
little to regret in the school year that was just ending. Considering he
had been second in the batting averages, he thought they might have
given him his "Firsts"; but it did not matter very much. There was heaps
of time. Three years of fulfilment. Half his school life was over. The
threads of his youth had been unravelled at last; and in the coming year
they would be woven upon the wonderful loom of youth, with its bright
colours, its sunshine and its laughter. As the spring morn flings aside
its winter raiment, so he had put off the garb of his wandering
adolescence. He was prepared for whatever might come. But he was certain
that it was only happiness that was waiting for him. Three years of
success in which would be mingled the real poetry of existence. He would
not write his poetry on paper; he would write it, as Herod had written
it, in every action of his life. His innings was just about to begin.



BOOK IV: THE WEAVING

    "Alba Ligustra cadunt; vaccinia nigra leguntur."

    VERGIL.

    "Life like an army I could hear advance
    Halting at fewer, fewer intervals."

    HAROLD MONRO.



CHAPTER I: THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS


It is good to dream; but "Man proposes: God in His time disposes," and
Gordon's dream was scattered at its dawn. Hardly a week later a great
nation forgot its greatness, and Europe trembled on the brink of war.
During those days of awful suspense, when it was uncertain whether
England would enter into the contest or not, Gordon could hardly keep
still with nervous excitement. When on the Sunday before Bank Holiday
J.L. Garvin poured out his warning to the Liberal Government, it seemed
for a moment as if they were going to back out.

On the Tuesday Gordon went to the Oval; Lovelace major was playing
against Surrey. In the Strand he ran into Ferrers.

"Come on, sir I am just off to the Oval to see Lovelace's brother bat.
Great fellow! Captain of the House my first term."

"Right you are. Come on. There's a bus!"

For hours, or what seemed like hours, two painfully correct
professionals pottered about, scoring by ones and twos. Gordon longed
for them to get out. A catch was missed in the slips.

"Surrey are the worst slip-fielding side in England," announced Gordon
fiercely. The Oval crowd, always so ferociously partisan, moved round
him uneasily.

At last a roar went up, as Hitch knocked the leg stump flying out of the
ground. Then Lovelace came in. He looked just as he had looked on the
green Fernhurst sward, only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the
magenta and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur of the
R.E. Foster type--wrist shots past cover, and an honest off-drive.

A change came over the play at once. In his first over he hit two fours.
There was a stir round the ground. His personality was as strong as
ever.

A boy ran on the field with a telegram for him.

"I bet that means he has got to join his regiment," said Gordon, "and it
also means we are going to fight."

Lovelace shoved the telegram into his pocket, and went on batting just
as if nothing had happened, just as if he did not realise that this was
his last innings for a very long time. He hit all round the wicket.

At last a brilliant piece of stumping sent him back to the pavilion amid
a roar of cheering.

"My word, Mr Ferrers, there goes the finest man Fernhurst has turned out
since I have been there. And, my word, it will be a long time before we
turn out another like him. There will be nothing to see now he has
gone."

They wandered out into the Kennington Road, excited, feverish. They had
lunch at Gatti's, went into _Potash and Perlmutter_, and came out after
the first act.

"This is no time for German Jews," said Ferrers, "let's try the
Hippodrome."

It was an expensive day. They rushed from one thing to another. The
strain was intolerable. After supper they went to the West End Cinema,
and there, just before closing-time, a film, in which everyone was
falling into a dirty duck-pond for no ostensible reason, was suddenly
stopped, and there appeared across the screen the flaming notice:

    ENGLAND HAS DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY

    GOD SAVE THE KING!

There was dead silence for a moment. Then cheer upon cheer convulsed the
house. The band struck up the National Anthem. The sequel to the tragedy
of the duck-pond was never known.

"Glorious! Glorious!" said Ferrers, as they staggered out into the cool
night air. "A war is what we want. It will wake us up from sleeping;
stir us into life; inflame our literature. There's a real chance now of
sweeping away the old outworn traditions. In a great fire they will all
be burnt. Then we can build afresh. I wish I could go and fight. Damn my
heart! To think of all the running it stood at Oxford; and then suddenly
to give way. My doctor always tells me to be careful. If I could go, by
God, I would have my shot at the bloody Germans; but still I'll do
something at Fernhurst. Stoics, you know; Army class English. How old
are you? Sixteen! We shall have you for two years yet. This war is going
to save England and everything! Glorious!"

The flaring lights of Leicester Square, the tawdry brilliance of
Piccadilly seemed to burst into one volcano of red splendour; a thousand
cannons spitting flame; a thousand eyes bright with love of England. The
swaying Tube swept Gordon home in a state of subconscious delirium to
the starlit calm of Hampstead.

Throughout the long summer holidays this feeling of rejoicing sustained
Gordon's heart. He saw an age rising out of these purging fires that
would rival the Elizabethan. He saw a second Marlowe and a second
Webster. His soul was aflame with hope. He had no doubt as to the
result. Even the long retreat from Mons, with its bitter list of
casualties, failed to terrorise him. Half the holidays he spent in
Wychtown, a little Somersetshire village, and his enthusiasm at one time
took the form of buying bundles of newspapers, which he distributed at
the cottages, so as to keep everyone in touch with the state of affairs.
At one time he thought of going round discussing the war with some of
the villagers; but he soon abandoned this project. He began with an aged
man who had fought at Majuba.

"Well, Mr Cavendish, and what do you think of the war this morning."

"Lor' bless you, things beant what they were in my young days. At
Majuba, now, we did things a bit different-like. But these 'ere Germans,
now, they be getting on right well. Be they for us?"

After this Gordon decided that the natural simplicity of the yokel was
proof against anything he might have to say. He pitied electioneering
agents.

A week before the beginning of term he received two letters. The first
was from Lovelace, who had got a nomination to Sandhurst, and would not
return to school next term. The other was from Hunter, saying that he
had won a commission in the Dorsets.

"_Well, Caruthers, old fellow_," he added, "_this means that you will be
captain of the House. I had greatly looked forward to being captain
myself, and had thought out a good many new ideas. But of course all
that has got to go now, and I don't intend to try and pass off my
theories on you; you'll probably have many more than I had, and a good
deal better ones. All I can say is that I wish the very best of luck to
you and to the House. I have no doubt you'll do jolly well. Good luck._"

Gordon sat silent for a long while. Sorrow at losing Lovelace strove
with the joy of reaching his heart's desire so soon. Finally all other
emotions were lost in the overflowing sense of relief that his days of
waiting for achievement were over.

In a mood of supreme self-confidence he returned to Fernhurst.

At Waterloo everyone was talking at the top of his voice.

"Is it true Akerman has left?"

"Yes; got a commission in the Middlesex."

"Good Lord! that'll mean Gregory captain."

"Hunter has left, too, I hear."

"Has he?"

"Caruthers will be captain of the House, then."

Broken sentences were wafted like strange music to Gordon's ears. He
felt that the eyes of those who once had been his equals looked at him
with a sort of Oriental admiration, in which there lurked traces of
fear.

He found himself addressed with more respect. One or two people came up
to congratulate him. The green flag waved. The train moved majestically
westward, and his reign had begun. He did not feel the slightest tremor
of nervousness. He remembered Hunter saying at the end of last term that
it was ticklish work being captain of the House. Was it? To Gordon it
seemed no more than the inevitable entrance into a kingdom which was
his by right of conquest.

The Eversham road swept in its broad curve up to the Abbey, black with
moving figures. Gordon slowly walked up to the House. It was the
privilege of School House prefects to enter by a small gate near the
masters' common room. Haughtily he rang the bell. A wizened old lady
opened the door, bowing with a "Hope you 'ad a good 'oliday, sir." It
was the first sensation of power.

A crowd had collected round the notice-board in the changing-room.
Gordon murmured "Thank you," and two or three Eton collars moved aside
to give him room. What a change! All the giants of the former generation
had gone. Betteridge had, at the express request of the Chief, come back
for one term. But he alone remained. Gordon was fifth in the House; and,
good Lord, that amazing ass Rudd was a prefect, and second in the House!
He and Gordon had a double dormitory on the lower landing. The number of
boys in the House had sunk to sixty-two, rather a desolating thought for
House matches.

The Chief was not in his study. Gordon dropped a health certificate on
his table, and gave instructions to one Morgan, a round-faced, ruddy
youth, to shove his bag into his dormitory. Then he wandered over to the
games study. And so this study was going to be his! He had often sat
there with Carter; but he had always felt himself an excrescence. Now it
was his own. He pictured the evenings after a hard game of football,
sitting in front of the fire; the long mornings when he was supposed to
be preparing history for Finnemore, spent in this atmosphere of
luxurious calm. He planned his furnishing of the room. In the broad
window he would hang two bookshelves for his smaller books. On each side
of the fireplace there was also room for bookshelves. Then, standing
against the wooden partition that jutted out into the room would be his
large oak bookcase for the heavy volumes. He would repaper the room, and
a new carpet was a necessity. He went over to the porter's lodge to give
instructions.

He had already decided to ask Foster to share the study with him. Foster
would be captain of cricket next summer. They would get on well
together. Foster never quarrelled with anyone; and it would be a
suitable combination. He met Foster by the eight-ten train from Exeter,
and informed him of the fact.

When prayers came, and Gordon stood under the mantelpiece behind the
arm-chair where the captain of the House sat, and looked down at the row
of new boys at the day-room table, it seemed incredible to him that he
had ever been like that. And yet it was only three years ago since he
had sat there, dazed and frightened.

Prayers were ended. Gordon sat back, his hands resting on the arms of
his big oak chair. The Chief came round, shaking hands.

"Caruthers, Foster and Davenport, you might come and speak to me for a
moment after you have finished your supper."

That was not long. No one had ever been known to touch any of the
first-night soup; Gordon had often wondered what happened to it. There
was much of it, and all wasted.

The Chief greeted them with his invariable fluttering smile.

"I suppose you know what I want you for? Kitchener called up his
reserves, so I have had to call up mine. None of you would, I think, in
the ordinary course of events have become prefects this term. But as it
is, I am sure you will all do well; and remember that being a prefect
does not merely consist in the privilege of being late for breakfast.
Some of you, who may very likely have views of your own on certain
subjects, must try and make them conform with mine. We must all try to
work together, and I am always ready to give any of you advice if I am
able to, and of course----"

At this moment there came the discordant sounds that proclaimed the
arrival of the last train from town. Gordon could imagine some wretched
new boy huddled underneath the stairs, ignorant and timid.

Rudd burst in with a health certificate and outside came the babble of
voices. "I must go and see Chief ... Health certificate ... Confirmation
classes ... Going to specialise in stinks."

It was clear that the Chief was to have a hard time for the next twenty
minutes interviewing all these candidates for a satisfactory division of
labour.

"Well, I think that is all just now, thank you."

He gave them a nod of dismissal. They filed out into the passage, black
with its crowd of clamouring applicants.

It was not until the next day, however, that Gordon fully realised the
change that had come over Fernhurst. Nearly all the bloods had left.
Gregory was still there, but he had sent his papers in, and expected to
be gazetted in a week or so, and of the Fifteen of the year before he
was the only remaining colour. Two members of the Second Fifteen
remained: one because he was only seventeen, the other, Akerman's
younger brother, because he was going to be a medical student and was
not allowed to take a commission by the War Office.

The staff also had undergone several changes. Ferrers was practically
the only master under thirty. The rest had all taken commissions, and
their places were filled by grey-beards and bald-heads, long since past
their prime. It was a case of extreme youth face to face with extreme
age.

"There will be some fun this term," prophesied Archie Fletcher, for whom
the immediate future stretched out into a long series of colossal
"rags."

Rogers was imperially himself. The Corps was, of course, to be allowed
considerably more time this term. There were two parades a week, one a
company drill on Friday, the other a field day on Wednesday. Besides
this, between twelve-thirty and lunch there would be section and platoon
drill every day. Rogers imagined that O.T.C. work would shortly become
more important and more popular than football; he saw himself taking the
position once held by Buller. On the strength of this alluring prospect
he bought a new uniform.

For the first few days life was entertainingly disorganised. The
time-table worked out all wrong. Gregory got gazetted; and Akerman, on
becoming captain, forgot the numbers of the football grounds, thus
causing endless and hilarious confusion. No one quite knew what was
happening, but everyone was happily excited, and vaguely garrulous about
"how the war has changed things."

Gordon found that his new position brought with it certain other
honours. In the Corps, for instance, where for three years he had so
tempered slackness with insolence as to make him the worst private in
the company, he found himself a lance-corporal, in charge of a section.
He was elected to the Dolts Literary Society, under the placid autocracy
of Claremont, who called them his "stolidi." But nothing showed more
clearly the change wrought by the war than the fact that Gordon was
nominated to the Games Committee, before which august body hardly six
months ago he had cut such an inglorious figure. It was a strange irony.

In the School House every prefect was allowed four fags, so as Foster
and Gordon were both prefects, the games study had a goodly crowd of
menials. For the most part they were simple, insignificant,
Eton-collared mortals, who flitted round the room after breakfast with
dusters, and at various other times of the day came in to see after the
fire. Gordon took little notice of them. Foster had made out a list of
the days on which each fag was on duty; one, Hare, was put in charge,
and when anything went wrong, Hare was considered responsible and
beaten. After two such castigations the excellence of the fagging was
maintained at an unusually high standard.

The first fortnight of the term was feverish. Corps work was revivified
under the stimulus of war; the field days by Babylon Hill provided
genuine excitement, in spite of the prolixity of Rogers's subsequent
summary of the day's work. There were going to be very few football
matches; but "uppers" were played with the old keenness, and there was
fierce competition for the last places in the scrum. Ferrers wrote a
long article to _The Country_ on "The Public Schools and the War," which
bubbled over with enthusiasm.

Gordon found authority a pleasant thing. There were, of course, bound to
be little worries, but they were transient. The new boys caused him a
certain amount of trouble. They never would take the trouble to find out
if they were posted for House games. The result was that as often as not
the House found itself playing with only six forwards. Gordon made a
speech to the House on the subject. The very next day Golding, a most
wretched-looking specimen, failed to turn up on a House game.

Gordon gave him a lecture on the insignificance of the new boy and the
importance of games.

"This sort of thing can't go on," he said, using the formula that every
prefect has used since the day prefects were first made. "If it did, we
might find everyone cutting House games and going off to pick-ups! What
would happen then?"

Golding was far too frightened to have any views on the subject.

"Well, I shall have to beat you."

Gordon led the way to the empty space by the cloisters where roll was
called.

"Bend over there!"

Golding showed a natural reluctance to do anything of the sort.

"No, right down; and lift up your coat."

Gordon gave him a fairly hard stroke. Golding squealed "Oh!" and rose,
holding his trousers, and looking round fretfully. Gordon's heart
melted. After all, this was a new kid, and a pretty poor specimen at
that.

The next shot was very gentle.

The sequel reached Gordon three days later. Golding had gone back down
to the day-room. Rudd was taking hall, which was, of course, an excuse
for everyone to talk.

"How many?" asked several voices. "Did he hurt?"

"Oh, only one and a half," announced Golding, puffed out with pride.
"First hardly hurt me at all, and the second one was quite a misfire."

This was rather a surprise to those who remembered Gordon's driving
power. Golding was thought rather a "lad" after all.

Gordon, however, soon dispelled this illusion. A week later he went down
to the House game in which Golding was playing and cursed him roundly
all the afternoon with perfect justice. After tea he gave him six for
slacking: and all delusions about Golding's bravery were immediately
dispelled.

"Damned little tick," said Gordon. "He made such a fuss that I let him
off lightly, and then he goes down to the day-room and makes out I am a
wreck. Collins, I charge thee, put away compassion! It does not pay with
these degenerates."

There is nothing more interesting to the artist than watching a thing
grow under one's hand. And Gordon, who had the ambition of the artist in
embryo, was thoroughly engrossed in the training of his House sides. A-K
Junior was a promising side; it beat Claremont's by twenty points, and
Rogers's by over fifty.

Morgan captained the side, and was easily the best man in it, but among
the lesser lights there was a great display of energy, much of it
misplaced. The worst offender was Bray. To watch him play was to witness
a gladiatorial display of frightfulness. His fists flew about like a
flail, his legs were everywhere. On the whole he did more damage to his
own side than to his opponents. And the amount of energy he wasted every
game in hacking the bodies of any who got in his way must have been
exhausting. Gordon had to speak to him almost severely once or twice.

In the game against Rogers's, Bray nearly got sent off the field. There
had been a tight scrum which had more or less collapsed. The whistle
blew. Jenks had been persuaded to referee.

"Now then, form up properly there."

When the two scrums assorted themselves, Bray was discovered about five
yards from the ball, sitting on the head of a wretched, fat, unwashed
product of Rogers's, punching him violently and ejaculating after each
punch:

"Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!"

Jenks looked very fierce.

"Now then, you stupid fellows. If you go on like that, I shall have to
report you to the Headmaster, and you know what that will mean."

Bray looked a little frightened, and for the future devoted his energies
to the football and not the footballers, to the distinct advantage of
the side.

But Gordon began to find that the more his interest increased in House
games, the less interest he took in uppers and Fifteen puntabouts. He
was always wanting to go and see how his House was getting on. As soon
as the first keenness wore off he found the interminable "uppers,"
totally unrelieved by the excitement of matches, amazingly dull. Indeed,
the whole school side was beginning to grow weary. Every Monday and
Thursday there was a puntabout. Every Tuesday and Saturday there was the
same game--First Fifteen _v._ Second Fifteen--with one or two masters,
such as Christy, who were no longer as young as they had been. The
result was invariably the same; the First Fifteen won by forty points,
and were cursed by "the Bull" for not winning by sixty. No one could
possibly enjoy such monotony. Every week the business became more
unpopular.

"The Bull" stamped up and down with a whistle in his hand.

"I never saw such slackness. What good do you imagine you men will be in
the trenches, if you can't last out a short game of rugger like this? I
don't know what the school is coming to!"

The side, which had never been good, got worse daily. As a captain, the
younger Akerman was a nonentity. Buller was captain of the side in
everything but name.

"You know, Foster," said Gordon one Saturday evening after a more than
usually dreary performance, "these uppers are getting about the ruddy
limit."

"Have you taken all this time to find that out?" growled Foster. "I used
to like footer once. Last year we had a good time on those Colts games.
Of course the old buffalo lost his hair a good deal, but the games were
level at any rate. I can see no sort of fun in winning every time by
forty points. Why can't we have pick-up games, so as to get level
sides."

"I suppose 'the Bull' wants to get the side working together."

"Perhaps he does; but why, if there are going to be no matches till
half-way through November? The Downside match is four weeks off, and
till then we have to continue this silly farce twice a week. And, after
all, it does not teach us defence in the least. Our three-quarter men
have not to do any collaring. If we run up against a side that is any
use at attack, we shall be hopelessly dished."

"I think we shall be dished anyhow. And I am damned if I care much.
Buller has knocked all the keenness out of me, and the rest of the side
say the same thing. Do you know, I actually look forward to Corps parade
day."

"The same with me. I am fed to death with footer."

"Still we are having a jolly good time off the field."

"Are we?"

"Oh, yes; we are prefects; we haven't got to do any work, and it's
interesting coaching the kids."

Foster looked dubiously at him. He had no side to coach. He also had to
do some work for his Sandhurst exam. next term. But Gordon's crown was
as yet too fresh to feel the tarnishing damp of disappointment.

       *       *       *       *       *

October went by with its red-gold leaves and amber sunlight. November
swept in bringing a procession of long evenings and flickering lights.
The first boom of the war fever died down. The Fifteen played
listlessly, Upper followed Upper. Puntabout followed puntabout. No one
cared who was in the side. Foster was left out--and thanked heaven!

"I am about sick of being cursed off my feet, and told I shall be no
good in the trenches because I miss my passes. 'The Bull' has gone
war-mad."

Gordon _had_ to keep in the side; it would not do for the House captain
to get a reputation for slackness. His play lacked its old fire and
dash, but was still good enough to earn him his place. He knew he was
going off; that he was not nearly so good as he had been the year
before; the thought worried him. But still A-K Junior was doing very
well.

One Saturday evening there came the sound of thumping feet down the
passage, someone banged himself against the door, and a well-known voice
was shouting:

"Hullo, Caruthers, my lad!"

Gordon swung round to find Mansell, with out-stretched hand, looking
magnificent in the top-boots and spurs of the R.F.A.

"Come in. Sit down. By Jove! this is like old times. I must call up
Archie! Archie!... Here's someone to see you."

Mansell was just the same as he had been a year ago, a little older, a
little stronger, a little more the man of the world. He was full of
stories; how his men had nearly mutinied because they thought their
separation allowance insufficient; how he had chased deserters half
across England; how he had taken the pretty waitress at the café to the
music hall.

"It's life, that's what it is! I never knew what life was till I went to
Bournemouth. Oh, my God, we do have a time! Damned hard work, of course,
but we do have a time in the evenings! My lord, I nearly put my foot in
it the other night. I saw the devil of a smart girl walking down the
street, and I could have sworn I knew her. I went up and said: 'Coming
for a stroll?' O Lord, you should have seen her turn round. I thought
she would fetch a policeman. And we have a jolly good footer side, too.
We fairly smashed the S.W.B. last week. Oh, it's grand. But, still, I
suppose you are not having a bad time here. It's good to see you lads
again."

On the next day Mansell stood an enormous tea in the games study.
Everyone of any importance came. The gramophone played, songs were sung.
Never was there seen so much food before. Mansell seemed like a Greek
god who had for a moment descended to earth to reveal a glimpse of what
Olympus was like.

Gordon went down and saw him off by the five-forty-five.

"My word! I envy you, Mansell," he said.

"I shouldn't. I often wish I was back again in the House. All those old
days with Claremont and Trundle, the footer; and all that. We had a
darned fine time. Make the most of it while you've got it."

As Gordon walked back alone, he had the unpleasant feeling that the best
was over, that the days of ragging, of footer, of Claremont, of Trundle
had gone beyond recall. The friends of his first term, Hunter, Lovelace,
Mansell, they had all gone, scattered to the winds. He alone remained,
and with a sudden pain he wondered whether he had not outlived his day,
whether, like Tithonus, he was not taking more than he had been meant to
take. But then, as he walked through the small gateway, and majestically
wandered up the Chief's drive, he reflected that, even if his splendour
was a lonely one, without the laughter and comradeship he could have
wished for, yet it was none the less a splendour. He must hold on. As
Mansell had said, he must make the best of it while he had it.

A small boy came up nervously.

"Please, Caruthers, may I have leave off games for a week? I have had a
bad foot."

"Did Matron say so?"

"Oh yes."

"All right, then."

He walked up the stairs to his study, smiling to himself. What had he
been fretting himself about? He had his power. He had the things he had
wanted.

    "_Is it not brave to be a king?_
    _Is it not passing brave to be a king_
    _And ride in triumph through Persepolis?_"

Marlowe had been right, Marlowe with the pagan soul that loved material
things, glitter and splendour, crowns and roses, red lips and gleaming
arms.

    "_A god is not so glorious as a king ..._
    _To ask and have, command and be obeyed._"

And there was no doubt he was a king. He must make the best of his
kingdom while he held it.



CHAPTER II: SETTING STARS


The same atmosphere of monotonous depression that overhung football soon
began to affect the military side of school life as well. At first there
had been the spur of novelty. The substitution of platoon drill for the
old company routine and the frequent field days led to keenness. But
even the most energetic get weary of doing exactly the same thing three
times a week. There are only three different formations in platoon
drill, which anyone can learn in half-an-hour; and the days were long
past when Gordon's extraordinary commands would form his platoon into an
impossible rabble that could only be extricated by the ungrammatical
but effective command that School House section commanders had used from
the first day of militarism: "As you did ought."

Those days were over. No mistakes. For thirty-five minutes every Monday,
Wednesday and Friday the School House platoon would move round the
courts in lifeless and perfect formation. And by now the School had
begun to suspect that the field days were conducted mainly to satisfy
Rogers's inordinate conceit. His house had always the advantage. The
limit of endurance was reached one day early in November, when Rogers
took his house out to defend Babylon Hill against the rest of the corps.

The attack was really rather brilliant. Babylon Hill overlooks the
country for miles. There was a splendid field of fire. It was a boiling
hot day. Rogers's men lay happily on the hill firing spasmodically at
khaki figures crawling up the long valley. Their position seemed
impregnable.

Early in the proceedings, however, Ferrers, who was conducting the
attack, sent Betteridge with the School House platoon on an enormous
detour to bring in a flank attack. If successful the School House
platoon would be quite sufficient to wipe out the defence, and Rogers
would never notice their loss, as they were sent off at a moment when
the attack was crossing some dead ground.

Forlorn hopes occasionally come off, and, by a fluke, at the very moment
when the attack surged over the crest of the hill, Betteridge's
exhausted platoon, with shouts and cheers, burst into Rogers's flank.
There was not the slightest doubt that the defence had been cut to
pieces.

For a minute or two Rogers looked perplexed at the sea of enemies. Then
with customary urbanity he told Ferrers to form up his men and seat them
on the ground, while he gave his impression of the day's work.

"I think the attack was quite satisfactory. Of course, it stood little
chance against the well-organised defence for which I myself was in a
way responsible. I believe most of the forces would have been destroyed
coming up the hill. But I think the day had a good effect on the morale
of the troops. Now morale----" He enlarged on the qualities of morale
and discipline for about ten minutes, and concluded with the following
courteous reference to the School House flanking movement:--

"I could not clearly discern what those persons were doing who came up
on my left. They would have been entirely wiped out. I considered it
somewhat foolish."

A contemptuous titter broke from the School House platoon, in which
amusement and annoyance were equally mixed.

"What is the good of trying at all?" said Gordon at tea that night.
"There were we, sweating over ploughed fields, banging through fences,
racing up beastly paths, and then that mouthing prelate says 'rather
silly'! What's the use of trying?"

"There is none," said Betteridge. "I am going to conduct this platoon in
future on different lines. 'Evil be thou my good,' as the lad Milton
said. We will be unorthodox, original and rebellious."

A few days later, Gordon and Rudd saw displayed in a boot-shop window a
wondrous collection of coloured silk shoe-laces.

"Does anyone really wear those things?" said Gordon.

"I suppose so, or they wouldn't show them."

"They are certainly amazing."

They stood looking at them as one would at a heathen god. Then suddenly
Gordon clutched Rudd's sleeve.

"A notion! My word, a notion! Let's buy some pairs and wear them at
platoon drill to-morrow."

Gordon was about to burst in to the shop when Rudd detained him.

"Steady, man, this is a great idea. Let's buy enough for the whole
platoon. It will be a gorgeous sight! Let's fetch Betteridge."

Flinging prefectorial dignity to the winds, they rushed down to the
studies.

"Betteridge, you've got to let us draw upon the House funds for a good
cause."

They poured out the idea. Betteridge was enthusiastic. For six shillings
they bought forty pairs of coloured laces.

At twelve-thirty next morning a huge crowd lined up under the lindens to
watch the School House parade. Rumour had flown round.

It was a noble spectacle. Each section wore a different coloured
shoe-lace. Gordon's wore pale blue, Rudd's pink, Foster's green, and
Collin's orange. Everyone was shaking with laughter. Betteridge formed
the platoon up in line facing the School House dormitories; sooner or
later Rogers would pass by on his way from the common room. At last he
was sighted turning the corner of the Chief's drive. Half the school had
assembled by the gates.

"Private Morgan," shouted Betteridge, "fall out and do up your
shoe-lace.

"Remainder--present ARMS!"

Rogers was far too self-satisfied and certain of his own importance to
see that the demonstration was meant for him. But the school saw it, and
so did certain members of the staff, who made everything quite clear to
Rogers that afternoon. Finally, the Chief learnt of the affair.
Betteridge got a lecture on military discipline and on prefectorial
dignity. But a good many of the younger masters thoroughly enjoyed the
rag, and the story of the coloured shoe-laces is still recounted in
common room, when Rogers has made himself unusually tedious about his
own virtues and his cleverness in scoring off his enemies.



CHAPTER III: ROMANCE


The Tonford match was a sad travesty of Fernhurst football. The school
lost by over forty points. Gordon got his "Seconds," in company with
nearly the entire Fifteen. He was not very elated. These things had lost
their value. Still, it was as well to have them.

The school authorities then came to the conclusion that the expense of
travelling was too great during war-time, and the Dulbridge match was
scratched.

The Fifteen continued to play uppers. There was nothing to train for.
There was no chance of there being any matches, but the same routine
went on.

It was in this period of depression that Gordon began to take an
interest in Morcombe.

Morcombe was considerably Gordon's junior; not so much in years--there
was, as a matter of fact, only a few months between them--as in
position. Morcombe had come late; had made little mark at either footer
or cricket; and had drifted into the Army class, where, owing to private
tuition and extra hours, he found himself somewhat "out of it" in the
House. In hall he used to sit at the top of the day-room table.

Gordon very rarely took hall. He generally managed to find someone to
assume the duty for him; but one day everyone seemed engaged on some
pursuit or other, so with every anticipation of a dull evening he went
down to hall. He began to read Shelley but the surroundings were
unpropitious. All about him sat huddled fragments of humanity scratching
half-baked ideas with crossed nibs into dog-eared notebooks. There was a
general air of unrest. Gordon tried _Sinister Street_; some of the
episodes in Lepard Street were more in harmony with his feelings, but
there was in Compton Mackenzie's prose a Keats-like perfection of phrase
which seemed almost as much out of place as _Adonais_. As a last resort
he began to talk to the two boys nearest him, Bray and Morcombe. Bray
always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so exactly like his
footer. But for once Gordon found him dull. Morcombe was so much more
interesting.

In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a House list that
Morcombe was in the Army class. He consulted Foster on the subject.

"Know anything about a lad called Morcombe?"

"Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He didn't seem so
bad."

"Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him."

"I see."

Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again.

"Is Morcombe fairly high in form?"

"Not very. Why this sudden interest?"

"Nothing."

Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" said Gordon.

"Oh, nothing."

Gordon looked fierce, and returned once more to the history of Michael
Fane.

Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting
with Foster, preparing some con.

"Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in," said Foster, "I am in
great difficulties with some con."

Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in _The Pot of Basil_.

"I say, Caruthers," broke in Foster. "You might help us with this
Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex----'"

Gordon went through the familiar passage with comparative ease.

"There now, you see," said Foster, "there's some use in these Sixth Form
slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon
last night?"

Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing.
Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best.

"You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go
about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the
world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance
being made from day to day."

"Yes," said Morcombe; "I agree with the 'much good, but much less good
than ill' philosophy."

Gordon was surprised out of himself.

"I shouldn't have thought you had read the _Shropshire Lad_."

"We are not all Philistines, you know."

Thus began a friendship entirely different from any Gordon had known
before. He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even
attempt to analyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he
was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so
unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to
Gordon's study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alone
together, and went off in search of Collins.

Indeed this friendship, coupled with his admiration for Ferrers, was all
that kept Gordon from wild excesses during the dark December days and
the drear opening weeks of the Easter term. During the long morning
hours, when Gordon was supposed to be reading history, more than once
there came over him a wish to plunge himself into the feverish waters of
pleasure, and forget for a while the doubts and disappointments that
overhung everything in his life. At times he would sit in the big
window-seat, when the school was changing class-rooms, and as he saw the
sea of faces of those, some big, some small, who had drifted with the
stream, and had soon forgotten early resolutions and principles in the
conveniently broadminded atmosphere of a certain side of Public School
life, he realised how easily he could slip into that life and be
engulfed. No one would mind; his position would be the same; no one
would think worse of him. Unless, of course, he was caught. Then
probably everyone would turn round upon him; that was the one
unforgivable sin--to be found out. But it was rarely that anyone was
caught; and the descent was so easy. In his excitement he might perhaps
forget a little.

And then, perhaps, Ferrers would come rushing up to his study, aglow
with health and clean, fresh existence. And he would talk of books and
poetry, and life and systems, and Gordon would realise the ugliness of
his own misgivings when set beside the noble idealism of art. Ferrers
was not a preacher; he never lectured anyone. He believed in setting
boys high ideals. "We needs must love the highest when we see it." And
during these months his influence on Gordon was tremendous.

Then, when the long evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in the games
study, his face flushed with the glow of the leaping fire, talking of
Keats and Shelley, himself a poem, Gordon used to wonder how he could
ever have wished to dabble in ugly things, out of his cowardice to face
the truth. Those evenings were, in fact, the brightest of his Fernhurst
days; their happiness was unsubstantial, inexplicable, incomprehensible,
but none the less a real happiness.

They vanished, however; and the day would begin again, with the lonely
hours of morning school, when Gordon realised once more the emptiness
of his position, and how hopelessly he had failed to do any of the
things he had set out to do.

       *       *       *       *       *

The state of affairs was summed up by Archie Fletcher in the last week
of the Christmas term.

"This place is simply ghastly, all the best fellows have gone," he said.
"Next term we shall have Rudd head of the House. All the young masters
have gone, and we are left with fossils, fretting because they are too
old to fight, and making our lives unbearable because we are too young.
As soon as I am old enough I mean to go and fight; but I can't stick the
way these masters croak away about the trenches all day long. If you
play badly at rugger you are asked what use you will be in a regiment.
If your French prose is full of howlers, you are told that slackers
aren't wanted in the trenches. Damn it all, we know that all these
O.F.'s who are now fighting in France slacked at work and cribbed; and
they weren't all in the Fifteen. And splendid men they are, too.
Fernhurst isn't what it was. Last term we had a top-hole set of chaps,
and I loved Fernhurst, but I am not going to stick here now. I am going
back home till I am eighteen. Then I'll go and fight. This is no place
for me."

It was the requiem of all "the old dreams"; and Gordon knew it for his
own as well.

During the Christmas holidays Gordon tried to forget as far as possible
Fernhurst, and all that Fernhurst stood for. More and more he found
himself turning for consolation to the poets; but now it was to
different poets that he turned. The battle-cry of Byron, the rebel flag
of Swinburne lost their hold over him. He himself was so entangled in
strife that he wanted soothing companions. In the poetry of Ernest
Dowson he read something of his own failure to realise the things he had
hoped for. _Endymion_, rolling like a stream through valleys and wooden
plains, carried him outside the hoarse babble of voices; _Comus_ lulled
him into a temporary security with its abundance of perfect imagery. He
discovered The Poetry Bookshop in Devonshire Street and went there for
the evening readings. There was a perfect serenity in the small room at
the top of the wooden stairs, with the dark blue curtains, the intent
faces, the dim, shaded lights, the low voice reading. He wished that
thus, in some monastic retreat, he might spend his whole life in a world
of dreams and illusions. But he realised that the hold of life was too
strong on him. At the same time he loved and hated the blare of
trumpets, the stretching plain, the spears glimmering in the sun. He had
sought for power and position; yet when they were won he despised them.
The future was impenetrable. But he returned for the Easter term
determined to do his duty by the House, however much he might disappoint
himself.

On the very first day of the term "the Bull" called him up.

"You remember," he began, "there was some talk last year about altering
the conditions of the Three Cock. I think it would be much better in
every way if we could come to some arrangement by which you should play
against two houses instead of three. Conditions are so very changed.
When the match was started you had ninety boys and each outhouse had
thirty. Now you have under seventy and each outhouse over thirty-five.
It is ten years now since you won, and it is a pity it is not more of a
game. Your men can't enjoy it, and I know mine don't. What do you
think?"

"I think we would all rather go on as we are at present, sir."

"But don't you see how hard it is for you ever to win?"

"Yes, sir; and it is also rather hard for us to accept charity."

"Of course, I can't force anything on you. It is a matter for you to
decide. But it does seem a pity to make a match like the Three Cock a
permanent farce, merely because you are too proud to see that you can't
take on the whole school. We'll discuss the matter at the end of the
term again."

When the House learnt of this interview it raged furiously.

"Confounded insolence calling it a farce," said Foster. "And, after all,
we stand a chance of winning. Heavens! we will boot them to blazes."

Everyone in the School House considered the idea of a change
preposterous. Gordon alone realised that the present was an impossible
state of affairs. Sixty-four against a hundred and twenty! They couldn't
hope to win more than once in six years. He pointed this out to Morcombe
in second hall that evening.

"As a matter of fact, if we win this year, I believe I shall go to 'the
Bull' and offer to change it."

"But why?" said Morcombe. "There are times when I can't understand you,
and this is one of them. Surely, if we win, it is a proof that we are
good enough to go on playing! Why stop then?"

"Because, if we did win, it would be only once in a way. And I can't
bear to think of our giving in after a beating by seventy points. It is
an anti-climax. I would much rather lay down our privilege willingly.
That's why I admire Sulla so much. At the very height of his power he
laid it down, and went into a glorious retirement. His is the most
dramatic exit in history. I should like the House to do that. We have
taken on too big a thing. We have got to give in sooner or later."

"Perhaps so," said Morcombe; "and I suppose 'the Bull' thinks you are
thoroughly conceited and proud."

"I believe so," said Gordon. "But let us talk about something else."

       *       *       *       *       *

As a whole the Easter term began far more satisfactorily than the
Christmas term had ended.

There were no "uppers." House captains ran everything. Morgan had been
promoted into the Lower Sixth, and Gordon found him a most entertaining
person. Naturally clever and naturally indolent, Morgan's work presented
a strange contrast. He and Gordon would settle down to prepare
_OEdipus Tyrannus_ for Finnemore. They would begin lethargically.
After ten lines Morgan would ask whether they had done enough; Gordon
would fling a book at his head; somehow or other they would slop through
thirty lines. Then Morgan would shut his book, and refuse to do any
more.

"Thirty lines is enough for Finnemore, and, besides, I feel rather slack
to-night."

Gordon did not take the trouble to point out that the same feeling of
slackness overcame him every night.

They would both pull up their chairs in front of the fire, and waste the
rest of hall talking. The next morning, however, Gordon would discover
that the lines they had prepared the night before conveyed no meaning to
him at all. He would curse Morgan, and then go up to the library, rout
out Jebbs' translation, and prepare the Greek. Then he would move across
to school with the contented feeling of work well done.

Morgan would be put on to con. Gordon would wait, laughing to himself.
He was sure Morgan would make an awful mess of things. But somehow or
other Morgan always managed to translate it correctly, if not stylishly.

"Morgan, you did that again when I wasn't there," Gordon would say
afterwards.

"Oh no; we prepared it pretty well last night for a change."

After a while Gordon got used to this apparent miracle; but he himself
had invariably to consult the English authority. He did not tell Morgan
that. The climax was reached when Finnemore, who liked Gordon and
thought him rather clever, wrote in Morgan's report: "He relies rather
too much on Caruther's help for his Sophocles translation." It was an
interpretation that had occurred to neither.



CHAPTER IV: THE DAWN OF NOTHING


Slowly the Easter term moved on. As the days went by the sense of
failure, which had overhung everything Gordon had done the term before,
returned with an increased poignancy. The Thirds ended in a defeat which
was rendered no more pleasant by the fact that it was inevitable. No one
expected the House to win. The defeat was no reflection on Gordon's
leadership. The Chief, in fact, said to him: "We were much too small a
side, Caruthers, but I think we put up a plucky fight. You haven't
anything to grumble at. We did much better than I expected."

But Gordon was always too prone to judge by results. He contrasted the
game with last year's triumphs, and with the glorious defeat of the
year before, which had brought more honour than many victories. It was
very different from what he had hoped for. There would not be much to
remember his captaincy by.

One morning towards the middle of February he was glancing down the
casualty list, when he saw Jeffries's name among those killed. He put
the paper down, and walked very quietly across to his study. Jeffries
was well out of it, perhaps; but still Gordon wished he could have seen
him once more. That last terrible scene in Study 16 rose before his
eyes. He could almost hear the bang of the Chief's door. And now
Jeffries was dead; and no one would care. A master, perhaps, might
notice his name and say: "Just as well; he would have made a mess of his
life." They had never known Jeffries.

"You look rather upset this morning," murmured Morgan from a corner of
the room. Gordon had not noticed him.

"I am rather; a chap who had a study with me ... Jeffries ... he is in
the casualty list this morning."

"A.R. Jeffries?"

"Yes. But you didn't know him, did you?"

"Oh no; but I saw his photo in a winning Thirds group."

"Yes, that would be him. He was a fine forward."

Gordon was glad to think that that was what his friend was remembered
for. Only the good remained. It was as Jeffries would have wished....

The Two Cock drew near. There had been a good chance of winning once,
but influenza had played havoc with the side. Gordon told them they were
going to win, encouraged them, presented a smiling face, but his heart
was heavy. He saw another cup going to join the silver regiment on the
Buller's sideboard. He had never found life quite so hard before; only
Morgan's unshatterable optimism, Ferrer's volcanic energy, and his own
friendship for Morcombe made things bearable at all. And yet he had all
the things he had once wanted. Now Betteridge had left, he was
indisputably the big man in the House. Rudd was a broken reed. At last
he began to see that the mere trappings of power might deceive the
world, but not their wearer.

A week before the Two Cock Tester paid an unexpected week-end visit. He
was full of vitality and exuberance. He was just the same, debonair,
light-hearted, thoroughly happy. Everyone was pleased to see him; he was
pleased to see everyone. He was almost hilarious. But as Gordon watched
him carefully, his mirth seemed like that of Byron in _Don Juan_,
laughter through his tears. The others did not notice, because they had
never known Tester.

Just after prayers he met Tester on his way back from supper with the
Chief.

"Hullo! I have been looking for you," he said; "come for a stroll round
the courts."

"Well," said Tester, as soon as they were out of earshot, "what do you
make of it?"

"Pretty awful."

"Yes, I suppose you have seen a good many ideals go tumbling down. All
our generation has been sacrificed; of course it is inevitable. But it
is rather hard. The older men have seen some of their hopes realised; we
shall see none. I don't know when this war will end; not just yet, I
think. But whenever it does, just as far as we are concerned the days of
roses will be over. For the time being art and literature are dead. Look
at the rotten stuff that's being written to-day. At the beginning we
were deceived by the tinsel of war; Romance dies hard. But we know now.
We've done with fairy tales. There is nothing glorious in war, no good
can come of it. It's bloody, utterly bloody. I know it's inevitable, but
that's no excuse. So are rape, theft, murder. It's a bloody business.
Oh, Caruthers, my boy, the world will be jolly Philistine the next few
years. Commercialism will be made a god."

"Do you mean there is going to be nothing for us after the war?" said
Gordon.

"Not for you or me; for the masses, perhaps. No one can go through this
without having his senses dulled, his individuality knocked out of him.
It will take at least twenty years to recover what we have lost, and
there won't be much fire left in you and me by then. Oh, I can tell you
I am frightened of what's coming after. I can't face it. Of course there
may be a great revival some day. Do you remember what Rupert Brooke
said in _Second Best_ about there waiting for the 'great unborn some
white tremendous daybreak'? That's what may happen. But our generation
will have been sacrificed for it. I suppose we should not grumble. But
we only live once. Do you remember that day of the Radley match, and
what I said about Oxford? I longed for Oxford. I wanted to begin life
over again, to sweep out the past. I was beginning to realise what
beauty meant. And then down comes the war. And I don't suppose I shall
ever have a chance now. I don't know whether there is an after life or
not, but if there is, I shall cut a pretty sorry figure, if there is
going to be a judgment. Well, it is my own fault. I put things off too
late. But I should have been a different chap, I think, if----"

Foster's voice rang out across the night:

"Come on, you two. What are you doing out there? The coffee's boiling
over. Buck up."

"Right you are."

In a second Tester had resumed his old pose of indifference. He played
his part through thoroughly; no one, as he danced with Collins up and
down the narrow study, would have associated him with the despairing
philosopher of a few moments ago. Gordon looked at him in amazement.
What a consummate actor he was! How successfully he kept his true
character to himself.

Early on the Sunday morning he went back to his regiment. Gordon walked
down to the station with him.

"I am going to the front in about a week, you know," said Tester, as
they were standing on the platform.

"Good Lord! man, why didn't you tell us before?"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't want them all unburdening themselves to
me.... Here's the train. Well, good-bye, Caruthers. Good luck."

"Thanks awfully; and mind you come back all right."

Tester smiled at him rather sadly.

"I am not coming back," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Two Cock came and went. The score was not very high against the
House. But it was a poor game. The school deserved to win, because they
played less badly than the House. But there was very little life in the
game. This may have been due to a heavy field day two days before; but
whatever it was, the result was pitiable. Gordon had almost ceased to
expect anything. Day followed day. Everyone was discontented; even
Ferrers began to doubt whether the war was having such a good effect on
the Public Schools after all. He said as much in an article in _The
Country_. He was always saying things in _The Country_. It was his
clearing ground.

The Three Cock drew near. And each day Gordon began to think the House
less likely to win. He had watched the outhouses play, and knew how good
they were. One afternoon the Buller's captain challenged the House to a
friendly game. A very hard game resulted in a draw. There was nothing to
choose between the sides. And in the Three Cock Buller's would have
Claremont's and Rogers's to help them.

There were discussions in the House as to whether the score would be
kept under twenty. Someone suggested it would have been a much better
game if they had accepted "the Bull's" offer of playing two houses
instead of three. When the day came the outhouse bloods were confidently
laying three to one on their chances of running up a score of over
thirty.

As Gordon sat in his study after lunch, before going down to change, he
found it hard to believe that this was actually the day that he and his
friends had looked forward to for so long. It was to have marked the
start of a new era of School House greatness. It was to have been the
beginning of the new epoch. With a slightly cynical smile he compared it
with the way in which the Germans had toasted "Der Tag!" Both results
would be much the same. Lethargically he got up, put a coal or two on
the fire, and went down to change.

The game followed much the same course that other Three Cocks had
followed during the last four years. For the first half the House did
fairly well, and kept the score down to thirteen to nil. Collins played
magnificently; Morgan was in form; Gordon himself was not conspicuous.
Then came the second half, when the light School House pack grew tired,
and was pushed about all over the field. The cheering of tries grew
desultory, and unenthusiastic. The final score was forty-seven to nil.

"You know, Caruthers," said Collins on the way up from the field, "we
should have done better to have only taken on two houses."

"Yes," said Gordon shortly.

As soon as he had changed, he went over to "the Bull's" study. He had
already decided that it would be better to alter the condition of the
match once and for all. It meant to him the complete failure of all his
plans. He had set out to lead the House to victory. In the end not only
had he retired, he had actually surrendered.

"The Bull" received him kindly.

"Ah, come round about the match, Caruthers?"

"Yes, sir. I think we had better play a Two Cock in future. Three houses
are a good deal more than we can take on."

"Well, of course, I had seen that all along," said "the Bull." "It _is_
too much. The conditions are so changed. Of course, we can't do this
without the consent of the Games Committee. I think we had better have a
meeting to-morrow afternoon. You might tell the others, will you?"

On the next day after lunch the Games Committee met in "the Bull's"
study. "The Bull" stood with his back to the fireplace.

"As you know, I have called you here this afternoon about the Three
Cock. Of course conditions have so changed that it would be no
reflection on the School House----"

"The Bull" went on. Gordon sat forward on the sofa listening
subconsciously. Scenes rose before his mind. Of Mansell two years back,
after Richard's Thirds, saying: "Wait till 1915." Of Hazelton in the
dormitory saying: "Our day's coming, and you'll see it, Caruthers."
Everyone had expected this year to a triumph. And here he was signing
the death warrant of School House football.

"The Bull" had finished speaking.... A resolution was passed....

"It is a lovely day," said "the Bull," "and I don't want to keep you in.
I expect you all want to be out doing something."

Gordon got out of the study somehow or other.

One of the Games Committee came up to him.

"Jolly good idea of 'the Bull's,' I think. It was much too big a job for
you. Much better arrangement."

"Oh, much."

Gordon went back to the old games study, the very walls of which seemed
eloquent with voices of the dead. The rest of the House had gone for a
run. He was all alone. His head fell forward on his hands. The captaincy
he had tried so hard to gain had ended in pitiable failure. It was the
desolation, the utter desolation!...

Of all that he had worked for during those four years nothing remained,
nothing.

And as Gordon's mind dwelt on this the love of the monastic life which
had so overwhelmed him the holidays before swept over him again with
renewed vigour. In the Roman Church at any rate was there not something
permanent? _Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus...._ That boast
was surely not in vain. He longed to surrender himself completely, to
fling away his own aims and inclinations, and abandon himself to a life
of quiet devotion safe from the world. It was the natural reaction. He
had been tossed on the waters of trouble and had grown weary of strife.
In Plato's _Republic_ Ulysses asked for the life of a private individual
free from care. "After battle sleep is best. After noise, tranquillity."
Dowson's exquisite lines on the _Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration_ came
back to him:

    "_They saw the glory of the world displayed,_
      _They saw the bitter of it and the sweet._
    _They knew the roses of the world would fade_
      _And be trod under by the hurrying feet._
    _Therefore they rather put away desire...._"

That was what he wanted, to merge himself into the great silent poetry
of the Catholic life. The Protestant creed could never give him what he
wanted. There was too much tolerance, too much sheltering of the
individuality; he wanted a complete, an utter surrender. He passed the
entire holidays in the world of ideas; he read nothing but poetry, or
what dealt with poetry. He tried to recapture the wonderful
full-blooded enjoyment of that last summer term. But for all that he
found material thoughts stealing in on his most sacred moments. A chance
phrase, a word even, and there would suddenly rise before him the
spectre of his own failure. And he was forced to realise that as yet he
was unfit to lay down the imperious burden of his own personality. The
hold of life was too strong. He still wanted the praise of the populace,
"the triumph and the roses and the wine."

Well, there was one more term; let him make the most of the roses while
he could. In this state of indecision he returned for what was to be his
last term.

       *       *       *       *       *

A big programme of First Eleven matches had been arranged; and the first
game was at Downside on the second Saturday of the term. Fernhurst won
with ease, and Gordon knocked up forty-two. The match was over before
tea; and, as the side had not to go back till six o'clock, they spent
the interval in walking round the grounds.

Few schools are situated in more perfect surroundings than Downside.
There are wide gardens and flowery walks. Rhododendrons were flaming red
and white, a hedge of gorse shone gold. It was a Roman Catholic school,
and now and then a noble Calvary rose out of the flowers. The Abbey
watched over the place. Monks in long black robes moved about slowly,
magisterially. Gordon went up to one of them and spoke to him shyly.

"A wonderful place this, sir."

"Yes; it is the right sort of place to train a boy in. Surround him with
beautiful things, make a real perception of beauty the beacon light of
his life, when he is young, and he will be safe. For there are so many
things that are beautiful and poisonous like iridescent fungi, and it is
so hard to differentiate between the true and the false. But everything
here is so pure and unworldly that I think we manage to show our boys
what is the highest. We fail at times, but on the whole we succeed."

He looked so kind, so sympathetic, this old man, that Gordon felt bound
to pour out his feelings to him.

"You know, sir," he said, "I have awfully wanted to talk to a Roman
Catholic whom I thought would understand me, and especially one like
yourself, who has willingly abandoned all his own ambitions. There is
something very fine in the complete surrender of your Church. In ours
there is so much room for difference of opinion, so much toleration of
various doctrines. There seems so little certainty. In Rome there seems
no doubt at all."

"Yes, the Catholic Faith is a very beautiful creed," said the old man;
"we are misjudged; we are called narrow-minded and bigoted. They say we
want to make everyone conform to one type, and that we bind them with
chains. But, my son, it is not with chains that the Holy Church binds
her children. It is with loving arms thrown round them. The Church loves
her children far too much to wish them to leave her even for a minute.
She wants them entirely, hers and hers alone. Perhaps you will say that
is selfish; but I do not think so. It is the great far-seeing love that
sees what is best for its own. Love is nearly always right. But if you
wish to keep your own views, to worship God in your own way, well, there
are other creeds. Protestantism, it seems to me, lets out its followers,
as it were, on strings and lets them wander about a little, laugh and
pluck flowers, in the certainty that at the last she can draw her own to
her. Well, that is one way of serving God, and in the Kingdom of God
there is no right or wrong way, provided the service be sincere. There
are many roads to heaven. Our road is one of an infinite love that draws
everything to itself. There are other ways; but that is ours."

"But supposing there was a person," said Gordon, "who really wanted to
surrender himself to that perfect love, but who found the call of the
world too strong. You know, sir, I should give anything to be as you,
safe and secure. But I know I should break away; the world would call me
again. I should return, but when I give myself, I want to give myself
wholly, unconditionally. I want there to be no doubt; and I want to come
to-day."

"I will tell you a story," said the monk. "I was a boy here years ago,
and there was one boy, brilliant at games and work, whom I admired very
much, and by the time I had myself reached a high position he came back
to us as a monk. I used to live in a little village, just behind that
hill, and I used to ask him down to supper sometimes. And I remember one
day my father said to him: 'You know, I envy you a lot.'

"'Why?' he asked.

"'Well,' said my father, 'as far as this world is concerned you are well
provided for. You live in beautiful surroundings, comfortable and happy.
And for the next world, as far as we know, no one could be more certain
of happiness than you.'

"The young monk looked at my father rather curiously, and said:

"'Perhaps so; but when I look round at your happy little family and your
home interests, I think we have given up a good deal.'

"And only a year later that young man ran away with a girl in the
village, and he was excommunicated from the Church. And yet I expect
that the whole time he really loved our life best; only the call of
worldly things was too strong; and he was too weak."

"Then what will be the end of me?" asked Gordon.

"Wait, my son. I waited a long time before I knew for certain that God's
way was best, and that the things men worshipped were vain. Those are
the most fortunate, perhaps, who can see the truth at once, and go out
into the world spreading the truth by the influence of a blameless life.
But we are not all so strong as that. It takes a long time for us to be
quite certain; and even then we have to come and shut ourselves away
from the world. We are too weak. But we have our place. And in the end
you, too, I expect, will so probe the happiness and grief of the world
and find them of little value, and when you have, you will find the Holy
Church waiting for you. It does not matter when or how you come; only
you must bring yourself wholly. It is not so very much we ask of you.
And we give with so infinite a prodigality."

"Yes," said Gordon, "I suppose there will be rest at last."

That evening as he sat discussing the cricket match with Morgan the
captain of the school came in and gave him his "Firsts." Morgan was
profuse with congratulations. Everyone seemed pleased. It was the hour
he had long pictured in his imagination--the hour when he should get
his coveted "Firsts." He himself had wanted them so badly; but somehow
or other they did not mean very much just now.



CHAPTER V: THE THINGS THAT SEEM


But the heart of youth is essentially fickle; and Gordon's lambent
spirit, which had for some time almost ceased to strive for anything,
suddenly swept round to the other extreme, and was filled with the
desire to reassert itself at all costs. Suddenly, almost without
realising it, Gordon was fired with the wish to finish his school career
strongly, not to give way before adversity, but to end as he had begun.
He would be the Ulysses of Tennyson, not of Plato. "Though much is
taken, much abides ... 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." ...
Like a tiger he looked round, growling for his prey, and his opportunity
was not slow in coming.

Ferrers was sitting in his study one afternoon, talking very
despondently about the general atmosphere at Fernhurst.

"It is not what I had hoped for," he said; "in fact, it is quite the
reverse. The young masters are gone, the bloods are gone. The new
leaders are not sure of their feet, and these old pedants have taken
their chance of getting back their old power. And the whole school is
discontented, fed up; no keenness anywhere. The masters tell them: 'If
you aren't good at games you'll be useless in the trenches.' Wretched
boys begin to believe them. They think they are wrong, when really they
are just beginning to see the light. They are beginning to look at games
as they are. There's no glory attached to them now--no true
victories--glamour is all removed. They see games as they are, see the
things they have been worshipping all these years. But the masters tell
them games are right, they are wrong; it is their duty to do as others
did before them. Oh, I wish we could smash those cracked red spectacles
through which every Public School boy is forced to look at life."

"But can't we, sir?"

"It would be no good; they wouldn't believe you. I am getting sick. For
years I have been shouting out, and trying to prove to them what's
wrong. They won't believe. They are blind, and it is the masters' fault,
curse them. There they sit, talking and doing nothing. I begin to
worship that man, I forget his name, who said: 'Those who can, do--those
who can't, teach.' It sums up our modern education. It is all hypocrisy
and show."

"But, sir," said Gordon, "we can't do much, but let's do what we can.
Now, when the glamour has fallen off athleticism, let's show the school
what wretched things they have been serving so long. If we can in any
way put a check on this nonsense now, if in Fernhurst only, we shall be
doing something. After the war we shall have a fine Fifteen winning
matches, and the school will feel its feet. We must stop it now--now,
when there is no glamour, when the school is tired of endless 'uppers,'
and sick of the whole business. Now's the time."

"Yes; but how? This sort of thing doesn't happen in a night."

"I know; but we can sow the seeds now. The Stoics is the thing. We can
have a debate on the 'Value of Athletics,' and, heavens! I bet the whole
House will vote against them. The House is sick of it all. We'll carry
the motion. We'll get the best men to speak. We'll give sound arguments.
Then we'll have formed a precedent. It will appear in the school
magazine that the Stoics, the representative society of Fernhurst
thought, has decided that the blind worship of games is harmful. It will
make the school think. It's a start, sir, it's a start."

"You are right, Caruthers, you are right. We'll flutter the Philistine
dovecots."

Gordon had not the slightest doubt about the success of the scheme. He
himself was at the very summit of his power. He had been making scores
for the Eleven out of all proportion to his skill; he was almost certain
for the batting cup. His influence was not to be discounted. He could
get the House to vote as he wanted; he was sure of it. He told
Davenport of the scheme, and he also was enthusiastic.

"By Jove! that's excellent. It's about time the school realised that
caps and pots are not the alpha and omega of our existence."

The air was full of the din of onset.

Nearly the whole House attended the meeting, and the outhouses rolled up
in good numbers, more out of curiosity than anything else. They thought
the whole thing rather silly. There had been a debate more than two
years back on "whether games should be compulsory." Only six had voted
against compulsion. "The Bull" remembered this, and came to the debate,
strong in his faith in the past. He wanted to see this upstart Ferrers
squashed.

Ferrers himself opened the discussion with typical exuberance.

"How much longer," he finished, "are we going to waste our time, our
energy, our force on kicking a football? We have no strength for
anything else. And all the time, while Germany has been plotting against
us, piling up armaments, we have been cheering on Chelsea and West Ham
United. Look at the result. We were not prepared, we are only just
getting ready now. And why? Because we had wasted our time on trivial
things, instead of things that mattered; and unless we turn away from
all this truck, trash and cant about athleticism, England is not going
to stand for anything worth having."

He sat down amid tempestuous applause. The audience were really excited.
They had gradually grown sick of games during the last two terms, and
now apparently they had the best authority for doing so. Everyone likes
being congratulated.

The opposition suffered in having Burgess to support them. We have heard
of him before. Years had not altered him much. He was the same
conceited, self-righteous puppet as of old. People got tired of
listening to him. There was a sound of shuffling, a window began to bang
with unnecessary noise. He sat down to an apathetic recognition.

Davenport then made a very biting speech against games.

"The Bull" was surprised to see him speaking on Ferrer's side. He was
in the Second Fifteen, and a very useful outside.

"Whatever we may have done before the war," he cried, "and we did many
foolish things, it is quite obvious that now this worship of sport must
cease. Let us hope it is not revived. We are sent here to be
educated--that is, to have our minds trained; instead of that, we have
our bodies developed, our minds starved. We play footer in the
afternoon, we have gym. at all hours of the day, and other experiments
in voluntary compulsion, such as puntabouts after breakfast. The result
is we work at our play, and play at our work...." He elaborated the
scheme in an amusing way. There was a lot of laughter. "The Bull" looked
fierce. Rudd, who had for a "rag" insisted on speaking for the
opposition, discoursed on the value of "_mens sana in corpore sano_."
Everyone shrieked with laughter.

He finished up thus:

"Well, look at me. I am the hardest-working fellow in the school." A
roar of laughter went up. Rudd had nearly been deprived of his position
of school prefect for doing so little work. "I am also a fine athlete.
To-day I clean bowled two people on the pick-up, and hit a splendid four
over short-slip's head. I am what I am because of our excellent system
of work and play. Look at me, I say, and vote for athleticism."

Buffoonery is often more powerful than the truest oratory.

The motion was put before the House.

A lot of people spoke. All in favour of the motion. It was great fun
watching "the Bull's" face grow gradually darker. Morgan said that only
fools and Philistines cared for games. They were amusing to pass an
afternoon with, and because one had to have exercise, but that was all.

Gordon waited till near the end, then he got up.

"I must first congratulate everyone on the broadminded view they have
taken of this important question; and I think it is an infallible proof
that the days of athletic domination are ended. For, after all, is it
any wonder that clear-thinking men like A.C. Benson pull our system to
pieces, when we have to own that for the last twenty years at least the
only thing Public School boys have cared about is games? And with such
a belief they go out into life, to find the important posts seized by
men who have really worked. No one works at a Public School. People who
do are despised. If they happen to be good at games as well, they are
tolerated. It is a condemnation of the whole system. And, after all,
what are games? Merely a form of exercise; we have got to keep our
bodies healthy, because, as Mr Rudd so wisely put it, a healthy mind
means a healthy body. Games were invented because people wanted to enjoy
their exercise. We all enjoy games. I love cricket; but that does not
make me worship it. I like eating; but I don't make a god of a chocolate
éclair. We can like a thing without bowing down to it, and that's how we
have got to treat games. Some fool said 'the battle of Waterloo was won
on the playing fields of Eton'; and a fool he was, too. Games don't win
battles, but brains do, and brains aren't trained on the footer field.
It is time we realised that; and I think from the way the speaking has
gone to-night, the school is beginning to understand. Now is the chance
to show that you think so. There are no good athletes in the school
to-day, the Eleven's rotten and the Fifteen is worse. Men like Lovelace
major _were_ almost worth worshipping, because they were men; they made
athletics appear grand, because they were such glorious creatures
themselves; but there are none of that sort here now. We can see games
as they really are without any false mist of sentiment, and we can see
that for years we have been worshipping something utterly wrong."

Gordon's speech really made an impression. After all, he was a blood,
one of the best all-round athletes in the school, and if he thought like
that, there must be something in what so many people were saying.

The question was put to the vote, and was carried by an enormous
majority.

"The Bull" looked for a moment at the crowd of faces that had spurned
the things he admired, looked as one who saw nothing, turned on his heel
and strode out of the room.

"Well, we won! Glorious!" said Ferrers.

"Yes," said Gordon, "'we have lit this day a candle that, by the grace
of God, shall never be put out'!"

He went down to hall, flushed with triumph. After all, there were some
compensations for everything; but he could not remove the feeling that
out of all the change and turmoil of his Fernhurst career he had
retained nothing tangible. He had written his name upon water; he had as
yet found nothing that would accompany him to the end of his journey. He
knew that his friendship for Morcombe would lead to nothing: very few
school friendships last more than a year or so after one or other has
left. He thought of Byron's line: "And friendships were formed too
romantic to last." It was too true, he had yet to find his real ideal.
He was about to begin the serious battle of life. He was standing on the
threshold. The night was black before him; he had no beacon fire to lead
him. He dimly perceived that beauty was the goal to which he was
striving. But he had only a vague comprehension of its meaning. He had
no philosophy. Doubtless in the end the Roman Church, the mother of
wanderers, would take him to her breast. But that was a long way off
yet, and he wished to bring himself to the final surrender, strong and
clean-hearted, not a vessel broken on the back-wash of existence. And
yet he had no true guide for the years that stretched before him. This
last episode of the debate seemed to bring it home to him more clearly.
His life had so far been composed of isolated triumphs and isolated
defeats, which had not yet so combined one with another as to form a
bedrock of experience which would serve as a standard for future
judgments. He had made merry, careless of what the next day would bring.
He had fought with "the Bull"; and in the struggle he had achieved some
things, and failed to achieve more. He had at one time prayed for the
long contention to cease; at another he had laughed in the face of his
enemy, flushed with the joy of battle. Gazing back on his past, he
seemed to stand as a spectator, watching a person who was himself and
yet not himself, going through a life of many varied experiences, now
plunging in the mud, now soaring to the heights. But the incidents only
affected him in a dull, subconscious manner. He had learnt nothing from
them. His school days would soon be over, and yet he felt as though he
were beginning life all over again. He had found nothing that could
stand the wear of time and chance.

But still there remained a few more weeks of Fernhurst; whatever
happened, he swore that he would finish as befitted a king. "Samson
would quit himself like Samson." There would be time enough for doubts
and introspection when it was all over, when for the last time the
familiar eight-forty swept him out of Fernhurst's life for ever. At
present it was his to leave behind him a name that would survive a
little while, "nor all glut the devouring grave." It should be
remembered of him that during his day of power he had never once given
way, had stood his ground, had never known the poignancy of the
"second-best."

Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with anyone in his own
house. All his encounters had been with outhouse men or "the Bull": he
might have helped to make the House feel independent of the school, but
he had always aimed at the unity of the House's aim. It was a pity that
his last contest should have been with the head of his own house.

Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory
made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it
would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never
minded. In comparison with Rudd's weakness his own strength shone the
more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things
reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in
to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the
prefects.

It all arose from a most "footling" source. Rudd was taking hall, and
the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to
borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was
dancing up and down the floor singing _What would the Seaside be without
the Ladies?_ Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew,
imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following
stirring lyric:--

    "_Ruddy-doodle went to town_
    _In his little suit of brown,_
    _As he could not find his purse_
    _He cried aloud, 'Oh, where's my nurse?_'"

Like the famous quatrain _The Purple Cow_, this poem immediately
achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was
passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.

"Ah, Rudd," he said, "I believe this is meant for you."

Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red.

"Who wrote this?"

Proudly the author claimed his work.

"Well--er--let me see," said Rudd: "it is er--gross impertinence. Come
and see me after breakfast to-morrow."

The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray
recommenced his wanderings.

That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects' meeting to discuss the
affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and
that a prefects' beating was the recognised punishment for such an
offence. Gordon protested vehemently.

"But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be
ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn't to be head of
the House. And, by the way, we haven't heard this masterpiece of satire
read out yet."

"I don't think there's any need," said Rudd.

"Well, I think there is," said Gordon. "I am not going to see a kid
beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!"

With many blushes Rudd read it out.

"Ah, jolly suitable, too," said Foster. "What you want is a nurse. Good
lord, man, can't you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious,
isn't it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine
example to the rest of the House, isn't it?"

"Well," stammered Rudd, "I don't pretend to be a strong prefect."

"You certainly aren't," said Foster.

"That's beside the point," said Rudd. "I have been cheeked by Stockbrew,
and I am a prefect. The punishment for that is a prefects' beating.
There'll be a pre.'s meeting here to-morrow at eight, and if you have
anything to grouse about, go to the Chief."

He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama.

"I don't think we'll go to Chief," said Gordon, "he would be utterly
fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be made an ass of by Rudd.
Think what fools we shall look trotting about on Rudd's apron strings
like policemen after a cook."

"Well, what can we do?" said Davenport.

"Do? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We have got to give this
lad a pre.'s beating. There's no way out of it. We have got to. But if
we let the House know about this, a crowd will collect; Rudd will go
first and make two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in
rotation. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with laughter; it
will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look a most sanguinary ass."

"I see," said Foster. "Hat's off to the man with the brain."

"But is it quite the game?" suggested Davenport, a stickler for
etiquette.

"Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? In this world,
unfortunately, two blacks invariably make a white."

"I suppose it's all right," said Davenport.

No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon usually got their own
way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon went to tell Morgan the glad
tidings. The news was all round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was
generally regarded as a priceless fool; it was sure to be good sport.

Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at Rudd's study. He was
terribly overcome at the sight of so formidable a gathering. He wished
he had padded. No one had told him of what was to happen. It would have
spoilt the situation.

The prefects sat in chairs round the room; Rudd, terribly nervous, was
perched on the table. He delivered as short a lecture as possible on the
sacredness of the prefectorial dignity and the insignificance of the
day-room frequenter.

In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stockbrew led, Rudd
followed, cane in hand. It was all very impressive. Round the V. A green
runs a stone path; a good many people were clustered there; there were
faces in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the right;
even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left.

"Quite an audience for this degrading business," sighed Foster.

"'Butchered to make a Roman holiday,'" said Davenport, who loved a stale
quotation. Stockbrew bent over the chain that ran round two sides of the
green. Rudd delivered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred
uncomfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont reading a poem by
Mrs Browning on "the great God Pan" and how cruel it was to "make a poet
out of a man!" He saw her meaning now. Then the farce began.

Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim's coat, stepped back as if
preparing a brutal assault, and then flicked him twice. A roar of
laughter broke from all sides. Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet.

Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then the rest of the
prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking with laughter.

Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. Such dignity as he
had ever had, had been taken from him. Everyone had seen his ignominy.

The next time he took hall a pandemonium broke out such as never had
been heard before. A game of cricket was played with a tennis ball and a
Liddell and Scott; Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided
to clinch his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked straight
in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no notice of Rudd whatever.

"Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down here. I heard it
right across the courts. The Chief might hear it easily. You have got to
shut up. If I hear any more noise I shall give every man two hundred
lines; so shut up."

There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had ceased to count in
House politics. To all intents and purposes Gordon was head of the
House, and the House regarded him as such. Rudd was generally known as
the "nominal head." Gordon had got his power, and for the next six weeks
he decided to enjoy it to the full. On the cricket field, although not
quite keeping to the promise or the luck of May, he did well enough to
make the batting cup quite certain. There was now no fear of any defeat
clouding his last days. He had ceased to worry himself with analysing
his emotions. He let himself enjoy the hour of happiness while he still
had it, and did not trouble to question himself how long it would last.
He had passed through the time of blind depression during the Easter
term when he had seen hope after hope go down: he had come through
somehow. It did not matter with what inward searchings of heart.
Outwardly he had been a success. Now his outward triumph was even more
pronounced. As a few weeks before he had been too prone to look at the
inward to the total exclusion of the outward aspect of things, now he
began to consider only the things that seem. It was the swing of the
pendulum. It remained for him to find the _media via_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last days of June and the early weeks of July passed calmly. In the
mornings he lounged in his study, reading novels, or talking to Morgan.
The afternoons went by like a cavalcade, with the white figures on the
cricket ground, the drowsy atmosphere of the pavilion, the shadows
lengthening across the ground. Then the evenings came, with Morcombe
sitting in his study getting helped in his work, or talking about books
and people and ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had an average
side, but no one expected them to do very much, and it was a surprise
when, by beating Christy's and Claremont's, they qualified to meet an
exceptionally strong Buller's side in the final. Foster and Gordon
looked forward to their last match at Fernhurst with the cheerful
knowledge that they had no chance of winning, and that therefore they
had nothing to fear of disappointment. It would be a jolly friendly game
to finish up with. The days raced past so quickly that it came as a
shock to Gordon to discover that his last week, with its examinations
and threatening form lists, had really come.

"I shall be sorry to leave, you know," he said to Foster. "I am not at
all looking forward to the army."

"Last Christmas I would have given anything to get out of this place,"
Foster answered. "But now, my Lord; I wish I was coming back. We've had
a good time this term."

The first three days of that last week it rained incessantly. The
Senior final was postponed till the Thursday. Examinations took their
desultory course. Gordon had often in the past slacked in exams, but
never had he treated them in quite the same indifferent way as he did
this term. He had no intention of spoiling his last days by working.
Every morning the Sixth went in for a three hours' paper, at
nine-thirty. Before eleven Gordon had always shown up his papers, and
strolled out of the room to read _Paradise Lost_ in his study. In the
afternoon he usually managed to toss off the two hours' exam. in three
quarters of an hour.

He was "finishing in style." On Thursday the rain stopped at last, and
the Senior final began.

"Foster," said Gordon, as the two walked down to the field, "I believe
ours is one of the very worst sides that ever got into the final. There
are two Firsts, you and I. Collins was tried for the Colts two years
ago. There are eight others."

"Oh, you forget Bray, a fine, free bat with an unorthodox style. But ...
I believe he made fourteen on a House game the other day."

"Yes, that is a recommendation, of course, but somehow I don't think we
shall win."

"Win!" echoed Foster. "We shall be lucky if we avoid an innings defeat."

And this supposition proved still more likely when half-an-hour later
the House, having won the toss, had lost three wickets for as many runs.
Jack Whitaker, now captain of Buller's, had gone on to bowl first from
the end nearest the National Schools. In his first over he clean bowled
Gordon, and in the next he got Foster leg before, and Bradford caught in
the slips.

"I foresee," said Collins, "that we shall spend most of this game
fielding. A poor way of occupying our last few days."

"That's where I score," said Gordon; "the wicket-keeper has no running
to do, and, besides, I rather enjoy a game in which there is nothing to
lose, no anxiety or anything. It is a peaceful end to a turgid
career.... Oh, well hit!"

Bray had just lifted a length ball off the middle stump over short-leg's
head.

"That's the sort of cricket I like," said Gordon; "a splendid contempt
for all laws and regulations. Heavens! there he goes again!"

A lucky snick flew over the slips to the boundary.

"This is something like," said Foster, and prepared to enjoy himself.

And certainly Bray's cricket was entertaining. He treated every ball the
same; he stepped straight down the pitch with his left foot, raised his
bat in the direction of point and then, as the ball was bowled, he
pivoted himself violently on his left foot and, going through a complete
half-circle, finished, facing the wicket-keeper, with both feet outside
the crease, but his bat well over the line. The chief attraction of this
gymnastic feat was the unexpectedness of it all. No one knew where the
ball would go if it was hit. Once when he timed his shot a little late
he caught the ball just as it was passing him and drove it flying past
the wicket-keeper's head to where long-stop would have been. The
fielding side was always glad to see Bray's back, and it usually did not
have to wait long. But to-day he bore a charmed life. He was missed at
point once, twice he gave a chance of being stumped, the ball shaved his
wickets times innumerable. But nearly every other ball he managed to hit
somewhere. In the pavilion the School House rocked with laughter.

At the other end Davenham poked about scoring singles here and there.
The score crept up. Amid cheers in which laughter was blended, the fifty
went up. Then Bray, in a particularly gallant effort to steer a ball
well outside the off stump round to short-leg, hit, all three wickets
flying out of the ground. It was a suitable end to an unusual innings.

He received a royal welcome in the pavilion.

"Bray, my son," said Gordon, "you are a sportsman. Come to the tuck-shop
and have a drink. Nellie, mix this gentleman an ice and a lemonade, and
put it down to my account. Thank you. Ah, there's Collins. Good luck,
Collins; keep your head."

Two minutes later Collins returned to the pavilion with a downcast face.

"The damned thing broke," he said, as if he considered breaks illegal in
House matches.

The rest of the side played in the usual light-hearted School House
spirit. There were some fine hits made, and some scandalous ones, too.
It was like a cinematograph show. Everyone slammed about; the Buller's
men missed catches galore. Davenport was missed four times in making
fourteen. Somehow the score reached respectable heights. Byes helped
considerably. The final score was one hundred and twenty.

"And now," said Collins, "we have got to field for two hours to-day.
To-morrow is not a half, so we shall have to field all the time; we
sha'n't get a knock till after roll on Saturday. Five hours' fielding.
Damn!"

"And it will do you a lot of good, too," said Foster. "Are you all
ready, House? Come on then."

A-K Senior filed out into the field. A loud cheer rose from the crowd.
The House was amazingly partisan. Whether a House side is losing by an
innings or winning by two hundred runs, it is always sure of the same
reception when it goes on to the field from its own men. The light had
grown rather bad and Foster began bowling with the trees at his back, so
as to hide his delivery. At the other end Bradford was to bowl.

The start was sensational.

Buller's sent in Crampin and Mitchell first, two hefty footballers, with
strong wrists and no science, who had run up some big scores in the
preliminary rounds.

Foster ran up to bowl. Crampin had a terrific swipe. The ball turned
from the bat. The bat only just touched it.

"How's that?" roared Gordon.

The finger went up. A ripple of clapping ran along the side of the
ground.

"You stick to that," said Collins, "and we shall get them out by
to-morrow night."

"Dry up," said Gordon ironically. "Can't you see we are going to win?...
Man in!"

Jack Whitaker came in. He was far and away the most stylish bat in the
school, and had scored a lot of runs during the season. He faced the
bowling confidently; he had played Foster a hundred times at the nets,
and knew his tricks well. He played through the over with ease. The last
ball he placed in front of short-leg for a single.

Bradford went on to bowl. He was a House match class of bowler. No idea
of length, or direction, only an indefatigable energy and considerable
pace. His first ball was a long hop wide on the off. Whitaker banged it
past point for four.

The next ball was a full pitch to leg. Collins had to run about a
hundred yards to rescue it from the road. Bradford looked fierce. He
took a longer run than usual, rushed up to the wicket, and plunged the
ball in with all his force. A howl of untuneful applause rose from under
the trees. The ball not only happened to be straight, but was also a
yorker. Whitaker's middle stump fell flat.

There are times when a panic seizes the very best side, and for the next
hour and a half the House had the pleasant experience of watching an
unusually strong Buller side rabbit out before a very moderate attack.
Buller's side contained four First and two Second Eleven colours, to say
nothing of three Colts caps. And yet by six o'clock the whole team was
dismissed for eighty-three. There was nothing to account for the rot.
Foster and Bradford bowled unchanged. Bradford took six of the wickets,
four clean bowled. It was incomprehensible.

"I can't understand it," said Gordon at tea. "Bradford was bowling the
most utter drivel half the time, I would have given anything to have
been batting. And you were not bowling at your best, you know, Foster."

"I am well aware of that; but, heavens! it was sheer joy. Look at old
Collins, down there, beaming at the thought of not having to field
to-morrow."

"It's all right," mumbled Collins from a huge cup of tea.

"By Jove! wouldn't it be gorgeous if we could win this match, and finish
up by beating the Buller crowd at their own game?" said Gordon. "Damn it
all, I don't see why we shouldn't. What we have done once we can do
again. They are a better side, I know, but we'll have a damned good shot
at winning."

Of course Buller's laughed at the whole thing.

"It's really rather funny," they said. "But, of course, we are in
absolutely no danger of losing. We couldn't wreck like that again; and,
what's more, we shouldn't let an ass like Bray make so many runs again.
We are quite safe!"

The School House kept quiet. They were not going to shout their hopes
all over the school. It would look so bad if they got thoroughly beaten
in the end. But in the studies and dormitories that night there was only
one thought in all those minds--that victory was possible.

The next day it rained the whole time. The courts were flooded with
water, the branches dripped with a tired languor. Gordon polished off
two exams with masterly speed, and returned to his study.

Saturday morning broke grey and wet. It rained spasmodically till
mid-day, and then cleared up. With a sigh of relief Gordon walked up the
big schoolroom to show up the last piece of work that he would do at
Fernhurst. For a last composition it was hardly creditable. A long paper
on the _OEdipus Tyrannus_ was finished in under an hour. But Gordon
had ceased to care for academic distinctions. As he closed the door of
the big school, and went out into the cloisters, he realised that a
certain stage of his journey was over and done with for ever.

By lunch-time all signs of rain had cleared off, and the sun shone down
on an absolutely sodden ground. Runs would be very hard to get. A lead
of thirty-seven meant a lot on such a wicket. An atmosphere of nervous
expectation overhung the House. Everyone was glad when the meal was
over.

The match began directly after lunch. There would be very likely some
difficulty in finishing the game that day. Collins and Foster went in
first. Gordon had asked to be kept back till later. The start was dull.
Foster was taking no risks, and Collins seemed unable to time the ball
at all, which was luckily always off the wicket. Ten went up after
quarter of an hour's play.

And then Foster, reaching out to play forward, slipped on the wet grass
and was stumped. Three balls later Bradford was caught and bowled. It
was Gordon's turn to go in. Nearly everything depended on him. If he
failed, the whole side would probably collapse. The tail had done
miracles in the first innings; but it could not be expected to do the
same again.

Gordon took guard nervously. He resolved to play himself in carefully,
but he never could resist the temptation to have a "go." The first ball
was well up, just outside the off stump. Gordon stepped across and let
fly. He had forgotten how slow the pitch was. The ball hung; he was much
too soon; the ball sailed straight up into the air! Point and
cover-point both ran for it. "Crampin!" yelled out Whitaker. Neither
heard; they crashed into one another; the ball fell with a dull thud.
The House gave a gasp of relief.

It was a costly mistake. For when once he got his eye in, Gordon was
very hard to get out. And, moreover, he was one of the few people who
could get runs quickly on a really wet wicket, for the simple reason
that nearly all his shots went into the air; and so he did not find the
sodden ground making off drives which should have resulted in fours only
realise singles.

That afternoon Gordon found the bowling perfectly simple. At the other
end wickets fell slowly, but he himself was scoring fast. A hard shot
over cover-point sent up his individual fifty, and two overs later he
drove a length ball on the off stump past mid on to the boundary, and
the hundred went up amid cheers.

"It is a mystery to me," said Foster, "how that man Caruthers ever gets
a run at all; he has no defence, and hits straight across everything."

"Don't let's worry about that," said Collins; "sufficient be it that he
is hitting these Buller's swine all over the place. Oh, good shot!"

A half-volley had landed first bounce among the masters sitting under
the wall. The umpire signalled six.

One hundred and fifty went up.

And then Gordon mistimed a slow yorker, and was clean bowled for
eighty-five.

He was received with a storm of clapping; the House lined up cheering as
he ran in between the ropes.

"Gratters! Well done!" shouted Foster. "That's a damned fine knock to
finish your Fernhurst cricket days with! Well done!"

Everyone came up and congratulated him. It was a proud moment, in some
ways the proudest of his whole career.

A few minutes later another burst of clapping signalled the end of the
innings. The side had made one hundred and eighty-six. Buller's were
left with two hundred and twenty-three to win. Anything might happen.
Just before five Foster led the House on to the field.

The next hour and a half was fraught with delirious happiness and
excitement. Foster bowled magnificently, Bradford managed to keep a
length; the whole side fielded splendidly. Wicket after wicket fell.
Victory became a certainty. Gloom descended over the Buller's side.
Round the pavilion infants with magenta hat ribbons yelled themselves
hoarse. It was one of those occasions in which eternity seems compressed
into an hour. Half-past six came. No one went up to tea, everyone was
waiting for the end. At last it came. Whitaker, who alone had been able
to withstand the School House attack, over-reached himself, Gordon
gathered the ball quickly, the bails flew off. The umpire's hand rose. A
wild shriek rose from the crowd. Gordon's last game at Fernhurst was
over; his last triumph had come; at last "Samson had quit himself like
Samson." Through the lines of shrieking juniors the team passed into the
pavilion. Gordon began to collect his things, to pack up his bag. He
gave it to a fag to carry up.

Collins and Foster and Gordon walked up from the field arm in arm.

"Well, if we stopped on here for a hundred years," said Foster, "we
shouldn't find a better hour to leave."

"Yes, the end has made up for any disappointments on the way. It will be
a long time before we have as wonderful a time again," Gordon said, as
he passed in the sunset, for the last time, through the gate of the
cricket-field which had been, for him, the place of so many happy
hours.



CHAPTER VI: THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED


To Gordon this match seemed the ideal rounding off of his career. There
had been no anti-climax, with him the best had come at the end. He would
not have to look back and compare his last term unfavourably with the
glories of yester year. He had done what he set out to do, he would step
rose-garlanded out of the lighted room, in the flush of his success. It
was exactly as he had wished. Perfectly satisfied, he lay back in his
chair, with his feet on the table, too tired to do anything, merely
thinking.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Rudd came in nervously with a House list in his hand.

"The Chief wants a list of the trains people are going home by."

"Eight-forty to Waterloo."

"Thanks."

Rudd walked towards the door, but as he put his hand on the knob he
turned round.

"Well," he began falteringly, "I suppose you are jolly proud of yourself
now, aren't you?"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You know quite well. You have done damned well according to your own
point of view. You have aimed at getting the supreme power, and you have
got it all right." Rudd had lost his nervousness now, he was shifting
his feet a little, but the sentences flowed easily. "I am a weak head, I
know, and you have managed to smash me quite easily. It wasn't very
hard, although you pretend you are the devil of a fellow."

"What on earth are you driving at?"

"Oh, not much; only I want to show you how much you have done for the
House. You are big, and you're strong, and all that; you've broken up
any authority I ever had, and you've taken it yourself. And, of course,
as long as you are here, it's all very well. But what about when you
have left? You are too self-centred to see anybody else's point of view.
_Après moi le deluge_; that's your philosophy. As long as you yourself
prosper, you don't care a damn what happens to anyone else, and you have
prospered right enough. You'll have left a name behind you, all right."

"I don't want to have to kick you out, Rudd," said Gordon.

"I don't care what you say; I'm going to finish what I have got to say.
You'll probably not understand, you are too short-sighted. But what sort
of future have you left the House? Order was kept all right when you
were here; you are strong. But when you have left, who is going to take
your place? Foster could have, but he's leaving. Davenport's leaving
too, so's Collins. The new prefects will be weak. At the best they would
have had a hard time. But probably the prefectorial dignity would have
been sufficient, if you hadn't smashed it up. You say 'personality' must
rule, but there is not so much personality flying about. We weak men
have got to shelter ourselves behind the strength of a system, and you
have smashed that. No one is going to obey me next term. They know I am
incapable; but they wouldn't have found it out but for you. That's what
you've done this term. You yourself have succeeded, but your success has
meant the ruin of the House for at least a year, that's what you have
done. And I expect you are jolly proud of yourself, too. You only care
for yourself."

Rudd finished exhausted, and stood there gasping. Gordon looked straight
at him for a second or so, then picked up a book and began to read; Rudd
shifted from foot to foot for a minute and then moved out quickly.

What an ass the man was, thought Gordon. The beaten man always tries to
make the victor's defeat seem less. It is all he has to do. Damn it all,
a man has to look after himself in this world; everyone was struggling
to get to the top, and the weak had to be knocked out of the way.

Then Foster came in aglow with excitement, and the two went up to the
tuck-shop and ate numerous ices, and made a great row, and knocked over
many chairs, and threw sugar about. Rudd was clean forgotten, as they
rolled back triumphantly, just as the roll bell was ringing. Work was
over. Gordon wandered round the studies, talking to everyone; in second
hall they had a celebration supper for the whole side. They had two
huge pies, a ham, countless éclairs; they sang songs, laughed and told
anecdotes. They finished with the school _Carmen_, and drank to the
House's future success. Laughing and singing, they at last made for the
dormitories.

But when the lights went out, and silence descended on the dormitory,
Gordon began to think of his conversation with Rudd; and, as he thought,
there came over him again the fierce longing to get to the heart of
things and to see life as it was, shorn of its coverings. Looking at his
career from the spectator's point of view, even Christy would have to
own that it had been eminently successful. He had been captain of the
House; no one had blamed him that the House had failed to win their
matches; no one can make bricks without straw; what did matter was that
he had always stood up for the House's rights, he had never given way to
"the Bull," he had been strong. This last term he had been head of the
House in all but name; he had won the batting cup; and he had finished
by playing a big part in the biggest triumph that the House had achieved
for several years. In all outward aspects he had been a great success.

But Gordon had had enough of outward aspects. He wanted to get to the
root of things, to get on terms of equality with life; he was tired of
seeing everything through flickering glass. What had he actually done?

And when he began to sum up his achievements, he was forced to own that
most of them were athletic triumphs, and athletics meant little to him.
He had long ceased to worship them. Because a man could make a big score
in a House match, it did not mean that he was in any way fit for the
battle of life; and what else had he done? He had carried on guerrilla
warfare with "the Bull." It had never come to a real head; so little
does. Most things are left unaccomplished in the end; and what had he
gained by this contest, and what had been the use of it? "The Bull" was
one of the few really fine masters in the school. He was a man, and
towered above the puny pettiness of Rogers; he was the "noblest Roman of
them all," yet Gordon had spent a whole year fighting against a man whom
he at heart admired. It was, of course, the inevitable clash of two
egotisms; but that did not alter the facts. He had been wasting himself
fighting against a fine man, when there were so many rotten traditions
and useless customs that ought to be attacked; but he had let them
alone. The only abuse he had attacked was the worship of sport, and he
began to wonder whether it had been worth it. Might it not have been
better to have let the school go on believing in its gods a little
longer? He had broken down a false god, but had he given the School
anything to worship in its stead? Better a false god than no god at all.

Rudd had been right. He had smashed through a garden of dandelions. He
had rooted up flowers and weeds indiscriminately. He had done nothing
wonderful; and he had left desolation behind him. Nothing would grow for
some time in the plot he had ruined. And yet he was "a great success,"
the world said.

"Only the superficial do not judge by appearances," Wilde had said,
mocking at society; and he had been right. Life was a sham, a mass of
muddled evolutions; the world was too slack to find out the truth, or
perhaps it was afraid to discover it. For the truth was not pleasant.
Gordon did not know what it was; all he saw was that life was built of
shams, that no one worshipped anything but the god of things that seem.
He lay supine, cursing at the darkness.

The next morning he woke with the same feeling of depression; he looked
round his dormitory. There were seven of them, all perfectly happy and
contented. And why? Merely because they looked at the surface, because
they did not take the trouble to find out what was true and what was
false. They were happy in their ignorance, and he, too, could be happy
if he just took things as they were. His last few weeks had been so full
of joy, because he had not taken the trouble to think. Thought was the
cause of unhappiness. And yet he had to think. He hated half measures.
For a certain space he had to live on earth, and he wanted to discover
what life really was. What lay beyond the grave he did not know,
"sufficient for the day were the day's evil things." But he felt that he
must try and plumb the depth or shallowness of the day's interests. He
could not bear the idea of a contentment purchased by cowardice.

Yet he had learn from Tester that the soul is man's most sacred
possession, and must not be shown to the crowd; that he must always mask
his true emotions, except in the company of those who could understand
them.

So he went down to breakfast telling Collins the latest joke from _The
London Mail_. On his way back to the studies he ran into a fag.

"Caruthers, Chief wants to see you in his study."

Gordon found the Chief waiting for him.

"You are not busy, I hope, are you, Caruthers?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Well, at any rate, I shall keep you only for a minute. I just wanted to
speak to you for a second before you left. Everything is such a rush on
the last day. I suppose you have found that authority brings a good many
difficulties with it, and I have heard that you have had a row or two.
But I think you have done very well on the whole. I did not say very
much about it at the time, but about two years ago I had very grave
doubts about how you were going to turn out; I must say that I was very
nervous about making you a prefect. But, still, I think your last year
has really developed your character, and you certainly have had the
wisdom and luck, shall we say, like the host at the wedding, to keep
your best till last."

The Chief smiled the smile that was peculiarly his own, and peculiarly
winning. "I must not keep you any longer. But I did want to take this
opportunity of telling you that I have been pleased with you this term,
though perhaps my praise sounds weak beside the applause you got after
your innings. At any rate, I wish you the very best of luck."

With mixed feelings Gordon left the study. He valued the Chief's opinion
amazingly, but he could not help knowing that he did not deserve it. He
felt as though he had deceived the Chief. If only the Chief knew how he
had plunged along in his own way, an egotist, an iconoclast! And then
suddenly there came over him the shock of discovery, that everything in
life was so distorted and hidden by superficial coverings, that even the
wisest failed to discern between the true and the false.

He was able to see himself as he was, to realise the littleness of his
own performances. Yet the Chief who, if anyone "saw life steadily, and
saw it whole," who was always more ready to judge an action by the
intention than by the result--the Chief himself had not really seen how
far his achievements were below his possibilities. And if the Chief was
at times deceived by the superficial, how was he, a self-willed,
blundering boy, ever likely to be able to come to a true understanding?

He shrugged. There still remained a few hours in which to enjoy the
fruits of a success which, if it meant little to him, conveyed a good
deal to the world outside. And power is very sweet.

He tried to fling himself into the light-hearted atmosphere of rejoicing
in which the whole House was revelling, but he found it impossible. His
laughter was forced; yet his friends noticed no change in him; he was to
them just as he had always been.

Even Morcombe, who was to him more than other friends, had failed to
understand.

"It must be rather decent to be leaving in the way you are," he said, as
they were sitting in the games study before evening chapel. "I doubt if
you stopped on if you would ever quite equal the appropriateness of that
last innings."

"Yes," said Gordon, with a conscious irony, "it's certainly dramatic."

What use was it to try and show him what he was thinking? He had learnt
that it is better to leave illusions untouched.

Often in the past he had tried to imagine what a last chapel service
must be like. The subject has been done to death by the novelist. In
every school story he had read, the hero had always felt the same
emotions: contentment with work well done, sorrow at leaving a
well-loved place. He had wondered whether he would want to cry; and if
so, whether he would be able to stop it. He had looked inquiringly in
the faces of those who were leaving and had never read anything very
new. Some were enigmas; some looked glad in a way that they were going
to begin a life so full of possibilities. Some vaguely realised that
they had reached the height of their success at nineteen.

But now that his time had come, his thoughts were very different from
what he had imagined. He felt the sorrow that is inevitable to anyone
who is putting a stage of his life clean out of sight behind him; but
for all that he had come to the conclusion that he was not really sad at
leaving. Fernhurst was for him too full of ghosts; so many dreams were
buried there. His feelings were mixed. He felt himself that he had
failed, but he knew that he was hailed a success. He half wished that in
the light of experience he could go through his four years again; but if
he did, he saw that in outward show, at any rate, he could never eclipse
the glory that was his for the moment. He remembered that sermon over
three years back in which the Chief had asked each boy to imagine
himself passing his last hours at school. "_How will it feel,_" the
Chief had said, "_if you have to look back and think only of shattered
hopes and bright unfulfilled promises?... To the pathos of human sorrow
there is no need to add the pathos of failure._" What was he to
think?--he whose career had so curiously mingled failure and success.

The service slowly drew to its end. The final hymn was shouted by small
boys, happy at the thought of seven weeks' holiday. The organ boomed out
_God Save the King_; there was a moment's silence. Then the school
poured out into the cloisters. Gordon hardly realised his last service
was over. He had been so long a spectator of these partings that he
could not grasp the fact that he was himself a participator in them.

He felt very tired, and was glad when bed-time came. He experienced the
same sensations that he had known as a new boy--a physical and mental
weariness that longed for the ending of the day.

For a few hours silence hung round the ghostly Abbey; then, tremendous
in the east, Gordon's last whole day at Fernhurst dawned.

As far as the Sixth were concerned, work was over. The rest of the
school had to go in for two hours for the rep. exam. The drowsy
atmosphere of a hot summer morning overhung everything. The studies were
very quiet. Gordon took a deck-chair on to the Sixth Form green and
settled down to read _Endymion_.

But he found it impossible to concentrate his thoughts on anything but
the riotous wave of introspection that was flooding his brain. He soon
gave up the attempt; and putting down the book, he lay back, his hands
behind his head, gazing at the great grey Abbey opposite him, while
through his brain ran Gilbert Cannan's words: "Life is round the
corner." He had failed. He knew he had failed. But where and why? Then,
as he began to question himself, suddenly he saw it all clearly. He had
failed because he had set out to gain only the things that the world
valued. He had sought power, and he had gained it; he had asked for
praise, and he had won it; he had fought, and he had conquered. But at
the moment of his triumph he had realised the vanity of all such
success; when he had come to probe it to the root, he had found it
shallow. For all the things that the world valued were shallow and
without depth, because the world never looked below the surface. He had
found no continuing city; his house was built upon sand.

The truth flashed in on him; he knew now that as long as he was content
to take the world's view of anything, he was bound to meet with
disillusionment. He would have to sift everything in the sieve of his
own experience. The judgment of others would be of no avail. He would be
an iconoclast. The fact that the world said a thing was beautiful or
ugly, and had to be treated as such, must mean nothing to him. He would
search for himself, he would plumb the depths, if needs be, in search of
the true ideal which was lurking somewhere in the dark. Tester had been
right. It was useless to look back to the past for guidance. He had a
few hours back asked for some fixed standard by which to judge the false
from the true. There were no standards except a man's own experience.
Here at Fernhurst he had failed to find anything, because he had sought
for the wrong things; he had at once accepted the crowd's statement for
the truth. Now it would be different. In his haste he had said that
Fernhurst had taught him nothing. He had been wrong. It had taught him
what many took years to learn, and sometimes never learnt at all. It had
taught him to rely upon himself. In the future he would take his courage
in his hands, and work out his own salvation on the hard hill-road of
experience.

The school was just pouring out from the rep. exam. He heard Foster
shouting across the courts.

"Caruthers, you slacker, come up to the tuck-shop."

"Right-o!" he yelled back; and racing across the green jumped the
railings, and went laughing up to the tuck-shop.

"I say, Foster, let's have a big tea this afternoon. We had a supper for
the A-K side on Saturday. Let's have the rest up to-day."

Gordon flushed with excitement at what lay before him. He wanted
everyone else to laugh with him too. An enormous tea was ordered. Men
from the outhouses came down, the tables were drawn up on the V. A
green, and the afternoon went by in a whirl of happiness. They rolled
out arm in arm for the prize-giving. For the last time Gordon saw the
whole staff sitting on "their dais serene." He looked at the row of
faces. There was Rogers puffed out with pride; Christy, pharisee and
humbug, superbly satisfied with himself. Finnemore sat in the
background, a pale grey shadow, that had been too weak to get to grips
with life at all. Trundle nursed his chin, twittering in a haze of
indecision. Ferrers was fidgeting about, impatient of delay. He, at any
rate, was not being misled by outside things; if he was misled by
anything, it was by the impulse of his own feverish temperament. He was
the splendid rebel leader of forlorn hopes, the survival of those

    "_Lonely antagonists of destiny_
    _That went down scornful before many spears._"

There, again, was Macdonald, with the same benign smile that time could
not change. As he looked at him, Gordon thought that he at least could
not have been deceived, but had too kind, too wide a heart to
disillusion the young. And, above all, sat Buller, a second Garibaldi,
with a heart of gold, an indomitable energy, a splendid sincerity, the
most loyal of Fernhurst's sons. And as Gordon looked his last at his old
foe, he felt that "the Bull" was so essentially big, so strong, so noble
of heart, that it hardly mattered what he worshipped. There hung round
him no false trapping of the trickster; sincerity was the keynote of his
life. Gordon would search in vain, perhaps, for a brighter lodestar. As
two vessels that have journeyed a little way together down a river, on
taking their different courses at the ocean mouth, signal one another
"good luck," so Gordon from the depth of his heart wished "the Bull"
farewell and Godspeed.

At last the form lists were read out. A titter rewarded Gordon's
position of _facile ultimus_. The cups were distributed. Gordon went up
for the batting cups, his own individual one, and the challenge one that
went to the House. Foster went up for the Senior cricket; it was a
veritable School House triumph. The Chief made his usual good-bye
speech, kindly, hopeful, encouraging. The head of the school shouted
"Three cheers for the masters!"--the gates swept open, the cloisters
were filled with hurrying feet.

The last hours passed all too swiftly. In a far corner of the gallery
Gordon sat with Morgan, listening to his last school concert. Opposite
the choir in their white shirts, and brushed-back hair, sang the school
songs inseparable from the end of the school year. There was the summer
song, the "Godspeed to those that go," the poignant _Valete_:

    "_We shall watch you here in our peaceful cloister_,
      _Faring onward, some to renown, to fortune_,
    _Some to failure--none if your hearts are loyal--_
                _None to dishonour._"

To Gordon every word brought back with it a flood of memories. He could
see himself, the small boy, reading those verses for the first time
before he went to Fernhurst, ignorant of what lay before him. How soon
he had changed his fresh innocency! How soon his bright gold had grown
dim! Then he saw himself this time last year, listening to those words
with an unbounded confidence, certain that he at least would never
achieve failure. Visions in the twilight! And what was the dawn to
bring?

The Latin _Carmen_ began. The school stood on their seats and howled it
out. Then came _Auld Lang Syne_. They clasped hands, swaying in chorus.
The echoes of _God Save the King_ shook the timbered ceiling, someone
was shouting "Three cheers for the visitors!"; the school surged towards
the door; Gordon found his feet on the small stone stairway. He looked
back once at the warm lights; the honour-boards that would never bear
his name; the choir still in their places; the visitors putting on their
coats and wraps. Then the stream moved on; the picture faded out; and
from the courts came the noise of motors crunching on the gravel.

As Gordon walked into the cool air he ran into Ferrers.

"Good-bye, sir."

"You are off, are you? Well, good luck. Write to me in the hols; I'll
look you up if I'm in town. If not, cheer-o!"

He was gone in a second.

    "_'So some time token the last of all our evenings_
    _Crowneth memorially the last of all our days ...'_"

Gordon murmured to himself as he walked slowly down to the dining
hall....

The next morning there was the inevitable bustle, the tipping of the
servants, the good-byes, the promises to write at least twice during the
holidays, the promises which were never kept.

"Here, Bamford, I say," shouted Gordon, "take my bag down to the
station."

Bamford looked almost surly at being told to do anything on that last
day. "Authority forgets a dying king," thought Gordon. His power could
not have been so great if it began to wane almost before he had gone.

The eight-forty came into the station, snorting and puffing.

Gordon secured a corner seat, and leant out of the window, shaking hands
with everyone he could see.

"You'll be down next term, won't you?" yelled Morgan, bursting as ever
with good will.

"I expect so," said Gordon.

But in his heart of hearts he knew that he would never come back. He
would be afraid lest he should find the glamour with which he had
surrounded the grey studies and green walks of Fernhurst merely a mist
of sentiment that would fade away. So many things that he had believed
in he had found untrue. But he wanted to keep fresh in his mind the
memory of Fernhurst as he had last seen it, beautiful and golden in the
morning sun.

The train slowly steamed out. Hands were waved, handkerchiefs fluttered.
Slowly the Abbey turned from ochre-brown to blue, till it was hidden out
of sight.

Gordon sank back into his seat. He was on the threshold of life; and he
stepped out into the sunlight with a smile, which, though it might be a
little cynical, as if he had been disillusioned, held none the less the
quiet confidence of a wayfarer who knew what lay before him, and felt
himself well equipped and fortified "for the long littleness of life."





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Loom of Youth" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.