CHAPTER X
FINCH
One stormy night in the early autumn, two years after the eventsnarrated in the last chapter, a group of masters were sitting in theircommon-room at Deal School. Supper was just concluded; a cheerful fireburned on the hearth, and the crackling of the flames was a pleasingcontrast to the roar of the wind and the dashing of the rain without.Two of the masters were playing chess under the light of a lamp, theothers were sitting before the fire, smoking and talking.
“Well,” remarked Beverly, one of the younger men, noted among hiscolleagues for his readiness to express an opinion upon any subject inthe universe, “what do you think of the Head’s latest departure?”
Mr. Roylston pursed his thin close-shaven lips as though he were aboutto reply, but before doing so he carefully pressed the tobacco into hispipe, and struck a match and applied it. “I don’t know,” he muttered,between the puffs, in rather a high jerky voice, “that it makes verymuch difference what we think. But I am inclined to characterize it asan arrival rather than a departure.”
“It is certainly very much with us,” commented Gray, with anabsent-minded glance into the fire.
“Well, I predict its speedy extinction,” resumed Beverly. “It isdifficult for me to conceive how the Doctor can suppose that Finch willever get on here. Upon my word, did you ever see such an object?”
“Upon _my_ word, I did not,” answered Gray. “But here it certainly is,and in a sense it is bound to get on. I am entrusted with its tablemanners, if one may speak of what does not exist.”
“I believe that Morris is to have it in his house,” said Roylston,looking over at the chess players.
“It? who? Oh, you are talking about Finch, eh? Queer little duffer,isn’t he?”
“Queer?” murmured Beverly in a tone that spoke volumes of intense pityfor the limits of Morris’s vocabulary. “Perhaps you can really tell ussomething about it, Mr. Morris?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid,” Morris replied. “The Doctor has somespecial interest,—he’s a trust, I understand, from a very old friend.It is very much up to us, I fancy, to help make things easy for thepoor kid. I shall speak to some of the boys in my house about him, andask them to go out of their way to be a bit decent.”
“Speedy execution were the more merciful, I should say,” commented Mr.Roylston, taking a comfortable pull at his pipe.
“Nonsense! he’ll make good,” said Morris, a shade of irritationcrossing his face, “that is, if we give him half a chance.”
“I don’t precisely see why we should be supposed to give him lessor more chance than we give to every boy,” said Beverly, a littlepompously. “I am sure we all——”
“_We_ can’t perhaps,” Roylston rejoined, “but doubtless Mr. Morris, whohas the advantage of certain confidential relations with the boys ofhis house which we do not enjoy, probably can.”
“Oh, come, Roylston,” exclaimed Morris, making a bad move in his gamewith Stenton. “Of course, I shall use my influence with the boys in myhouse to make things easy for poor Finch. Why should I not?”
“Echo answers ‘why,’” replied Mr. Roylston, somewhat annoyed; and thenhe added with an air of indulgence, “but be assured, my dear fellow, Ihave no intention of criticising your extraordinary theories afresh.”
“Thank you,” said Morris and gave his attention to his game. “Yourmove, Stenton, I think.”
Mr. Roylston sent a characteristic glance of patient suffering in thedirection of his colleague, and then held up his hands for the benefitof the company as though to say, “You see how useless it is to discussthese things with our friend over there.” He then bade them all a tartgood-night, and went off to keep his duty in the schoolroom.
His way led across the Gymnasium. There, in the center of a crowdof boys engaged in making his life miserable, stood the new boy,Finch, who had just been the subject of conversation in the masters’common-room. He was a sorry specimen of a boy, to be sure; the sorriestprobably that through mistaken kindness had ever found his way to agreat school of wholesome, healthy youngsters. He was thin, he waspallid, he was ugly. He had the face of a little old man, weak lighteyes, a high dome-like forehead, over which straggled little wispsof thin yellow hair. His ill-formed mouth was parted now in a snarlhalf of rage, half of terror, as he glanced from one jibing boy toanother, like a hunted rat. His clothes were too small for him, andhis thin little legs, which long since should have been concealed bylong trousers, were incased in bright red knitted stockings. Thesehad acted upon the imagination of his schoolmates like the proverbialred rag upon a bull, and were the subject of the stream of jibes andjokes that were being heaped upon him. It was not a representativecrowd of boys that surrounded him, but a miscellaneous crew of lowerschoolers who had followed in the wake of a fat Third Form boy, knownas Ducky Thornton, the self-appointed chief inquisitor of the moment.The noise was unduly loud, consisting for the most part of catcalls andstrange and weird squeaks from the throats of a dozen excited smallboys. It was the sort of commotion that under ordinary circumstancesMr. Roylston would have promptly checked and rewarded with a liberaldistribution of pensums. Such indeed had been his immediate impulse,but as he started to carry out his purpose, he had caught sight ofFinch and there had flashed into his mind the irritating exchangeof words about him in the common-room. He checked the feeling ofcompassion for the new boy and his annoyance at the disturbance, andpassed quickly into the cloister that led into the schoolroom.
Fortunately for Finch a more resolute champion now appeared upon thescene. It was Kit Wilson—on his way across the Gymnasium. Quick as aflash he took in the situation, and, crossing the room with a leap anda stride, he landed in the midst of the party of “horsers.” He grabbedone small boy by the collar of his coat and sent him spinning out intothe middle of the Gymnasium, another he pushed out of his way withsomething of his football manner, and ended by applying a kick to DuckyThornton that even that well-cushioned individual was apt to remember.“Here, you infernal cads!” he cried, “cut this out! what the deuce doyou think you’re up to?” The crowd of small boys scattered instantly,leaving poor Ducky, with rueful face and painful limp, to hobble awayby himself, pursued by a volley of Kit’s variegated vocabulary that wasmore picturesque than elegant.
Finch stood still where Kit had found him as if transfixed. He wasrelieved, thankful for the rescue, but incapable of saying so. His facelooked hideous in the bright glare of the electric light, drawn as itwas by anguish and blazing with what seemed like superhuman hate. Kitstared at him a moment, amazed by the passion of the boy’s face; almostshocked by its weird uncanny venom. Conquering the instinctive feelingof revulsion, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You poor littleduffer,” he said, “I’m sorry for you. Don’t take it too hard. They’re acrowd of little curs, but their bark is worse than their bite.”
“I hate them,” snarled the boy. “I hate them.” Then his face relaxed,and the light faded in his little blue eyes, as they suffused withtears. “Thank you all the same,” he added, his voice still tremblingwith passion.
“What’s your name?” asked Kit.
“Jacob Finch.”
“Oh! you’re the new boy, eh? Where do you come from?”
“Coventry. I wish I was back. I can’t stand it here.”
“Rot!” exclaimed Kit, with the easy-going philosophy of popularity andsuccess. “Cut along to the schoolroom now, and let me know if DuckyThornton bothers you again.”
“All right,” Finch murmured, and dropping his head, he stole offthrough the cloister, keeping well within the shadow of the wall untilhe reached the schoolroom. There he was received by Mr. Roylston, whoshowed him a seat, and immediately afterwards called the room to order.
Kit, having watched Finch out of sight, stalked off grandly across theGymnasium, dropping a word of warning here and there to the groups ofsmall boys who had watched the encounter from a safe distance. DuckyThornton witnessed his departure from an angle in the wall, whither hehad
retired with a few of his satellites. His face, at no time veryattractive, wore now a most repulsive expression of contempt. “Bygolly,” was his comment, “he’s the swell head, ain’t he? I wonder if hehurts?”
“Not as much as you do, Ducky, I guess,” squeaked a premature wit andgot his ears cuffed for his effort.
A few minutes later Wilson dropped into the study of Number FiveStanderland, which Deering and Lawrence were sharing that year, Carrollhaving been promoted to the Old School, a privilege of the Sixth. Thetwo boys were sitting at their desks, books open, it is true, butrather deeper in football than Virgil. Kit received a characteristicwelcome.
“Hello, old sport, drape yourself on a couch, and listen to this fairytale about the pious Æneas. Tony’s boned it out.”
“Oh, chuck the stuff!” growled Kit. “I’ll do it after breakfast with atrot. I’ve only got ten minutes now for a pow-wow. Have you seen thenew kid?”
“Well, rather,” answered Jimmie, “the Doctor has loaded him onto Bill.He’s to have Number Three single right across the hall. The littlebeast is in the Fifth.”
“Pon honor?” said Kit. “Why, he looks like a sub-First Former. I justrescued him from a crowd of Lower Schoolers that were putting it tohim particularly nastily. I gave Ducky Thornton, that wallowing whiteelephant of the Third, a kick that I reckon’ll make his sitting downuncomfortable for a week. But Finch is such a gloomy little toad that Iwas almost sorry I’d done it.”
Tony smiled. “That must have been good fun. But I am sorry the Doctortook him here; can’t understand it, in fact. He’ll never do, poor rat!”
“Well, hardly.”
“By the by, kiddo, what——Come in!” he interrupted himself to cry inresponse to a knock at the door.
Morris entered and was welcomed by the boys in a manner that bespokeboth familiarity and deference. The master waved them back into theircomfortable chairs. “Thanks, no; I am not going to rob the lot of youof these precious moments of study. I should like to speak to you,Tony, for a few minutes in my study.”
“Certainly, sir.” Tony followed the master down the hallway to thefamiliar cheerful study—Tony had really got to know his house-mastermore intimately the year before.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Morris, “for I want to talk with youfor a little while—quite seriously.”
Tony sat down upon the couch, leaned back amongst the pillows and puthis hands beneath his head, looking up at Morris who stood on thehearth rug with his back to the open wood fire. “All right, O wiseman!” he laughed. “I am very comfy, and all attention.”
Morris looked down at the boy and seemed to study him afresh. He likedDeering very much indeed, better he felt than he had ever liked a boybefore. And as he stood there, he told himself that the reason was,that beside Tony’s personal charm, the brightness and lovableness ofhis sunshiny open nature, there were depths of feeling and purposethat one ordinarily did not find. “Well, Tony, I want you to dosomething—something quite out of the ordinary—something indeed that Ithink will be particularly hard and disagreeable.”
“What is it?” asked the boy, “I don’t exactly crave hardship, butthere isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do if you specially asked me.”
“Well, I count on that; that’s partly the reason I am asking you ratherthan another. I want you to make a special effort to look out forFinch.”
“Gee whiz! Mr. Morris,” exclaimed Tony, sitting upright, and assumingan expression of exaggerated horror. “I’ve seen him! I’ll be decent, ofcourse. But really, I don’t see how I can possibly stand taking thatlittle scarecrow under my wing. Why, Jimmie and Kit would——”
“Oh, yes, I know their attitude; but you know as well as I that theywould back you up in the matter. I want you to be more than decent. Theboy is here, and the Head has strong reasons for wanting him to makegood. As you know, all the chances are against his doing so. In truth,I should say, that the boy has no chance unless an old boy, more orless of your caliber, will definitely take him up and befriend him.”
“Nobody is going to hurt him,” protested Tony. “Why, Kit just nowrescued him from Ducky Thornton and a crowd of little bullies.”
“That’s good,” answered Morris, “but that is only a drop in the bucket.That boy’s life will be unbearable unless he makes a friend. And Ido not believe there is a boy in the school who would be his friend,_really his friend_,—except you.”
“His friend, Mr. Morris?...!”
“Nothing else helps you know—_nothing_.”
Tony grew serious. He thought of what friendship had meant tohim:—Jimmie—his eyes moistened at the thought of him; Carroll;Morris, the man before him, whose deep kind gray eyes were looking athim now so confidently. “Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “you do know me,I reckon; you bank on my being clay in your hands.” Then he laughed,“What’s the brat’s name?—Pinch?”
“No, Finch, Jacob Finch.”
“Well, all right—Finch.... The dickens fly away with him. Good-night,maestro.”
“Good-night, my boy.” They clasped hands for a moment, and Tony wasgone.
“I am an ass,” he said, flinging himself on the couch by the side ofKit, when he returned to Number Five. “I’ve promised Bill to be aguardian angel to that new kid.”
Deering of Deal; Or, The Spirit of the School Page 13