by Unknown
‘No, not much.’
‘Ah!’ This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.
‘When you say “not much”, Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have you read any of his poems?’
‘Oh, yes, one or two.’
‘Ah! Have you read “Pippa Passes”?’
‘No, I think not.’
‘Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you read “Fifine at the Fair”?’
‘No.’
‘Have you read “Sordello”?’
‘No.’
‘What have you read, Mr MacArthur?’
Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin’, and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe’s subsequent share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further onslaught, was not large.
One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost swooned. The lady’s steady and critical inspection of his style of carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name of ‘study-gorges’, where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled.
But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out ‘Fore!’ or something to that effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe reseated himself in an overwrought state.
‘Tell me about St Austin’s, Mr MacArthur,’ said Miss Beezley, as the Babe was trying to think of something to say—not about the weather. ‘Do you play football?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’
A prolonged silence.
‘Do you—’ began the Babe at last.
‘Tell me—’ began Miss Beezley, simultaneously.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Babe; ‘you were saying—?’
‘Not at all, Mr MacArthur. You were saying—?’
‘I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?’
‘Yes; do you?’
‘No.’
‘Ah!’
‘If this is going to continue,’ thought the Babe, ‘I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit suicide.’
There was another long pause.
‘Tell me the names of some of the masters at St Austin’s, Mr MacArthur,’ said Miss Beezley. She habitually spoke as if she were an examination paper, and her manner might have seemed to some to verge upon the autocratic, but the Babe was too thankful that the question was not on Browning or the higher algebra to notice this. He reeled off a list of names.
‘… Then there’s Merevale—rather a decent sort—and Dacre.’
‘What sort of a man is Mr Dacre?’
‘Rather a rotter, I think.’
‘What is a rotter, Mr MacArthur?’
‘Well, I don’t know how to describe it exactly. He doesn’t play cricket or anything. He’s generally considered rather a crock.’
‘Really! This is very interesting, Mr MacArthur. And what is a crock? I suppose what it comes to,’ she added, as the Babe did his best to find a definition, ‘is this, that you yourself dislike him.’ The Babe admitted the impeachment. Mr Dacre had a finished gift of sarcasm which had made him writhe on several occasions, and sarcastic masters are rarely very popular.
‘Ah!’ said Miss Beezley. She made frequent use of that monosyllable. It generally gave the Babe the same sort of feeling as he had been accustomed to experience in the happy days of his childhood when he had been caught stealing jam.
Miss Beezley went at last, and the Babe felt like a convict who has just received a free pardon.
One afternoon in the following term he was playing fives with Charteris, a prefect in Merevale’s House. Charteris was remarkable from the fact that he edited and published at his own expense an unofficial and highly personal paper, called The Glow Worm, which was a great deal more in demand than the recognized School magazine, The Austinian, and always paid its expenses handsomely.
Charteris had the journalistic taint very badly. He was always the first to get wind of any piece of School news. On this occasion he was in possession of an exclusive item. The Babe was the first person to whom he communicated it.
‘Have you heard the latest romance in high life, Babe?’ he observed, as they were leaving the court. ‘But of course you haven’t. You never do hear anything.’
‘Well?’ asked the Babe, patiently.
‘You know Dacre?’
‘I seem to have heard the name somewhere.’
‘He’s going to be married.’
‘Yes. Don’t trouble to try and look interested. You’re one of those offensive people who mind their own business and nobody else’s. Only I thought I’d tell you. Then you’ll have a remote chance of understanding my quips on the subject in next week’s Glow Worm. You laddies frae the north have to be carefully prepared for the subtler flights of wit.’
‘Thanks,’ said the Babe, placidly. ‘Good-night.’
The Headmaster intercepted the Babe a few days after he was going home after a scratch game of football. ‘MacArthur,’ said he, ‘you pass Mr Dacre’s House, do you not, on your way home? Then would you mind asking him from me to take preparation tonight? I find I shall be unable to be there.’ It was the custom at St Austin’s for the Head to preside at preparation once a week; but he performed this duty, like the celebrated Irishman, as often as he could avoid it.
The Babe accepted the commission. He was shown into the drawing-room. To his consternation, for he was not a society man, there appeared to be a species of tea-party going on. As the door opened, somebody was just finishing a remark.
‘… faculty which he displayed in such poems as “Sordello”,’ said the voice.
The Babe knew that voice.
He would have fled if he had been able, but the servant was already announcing him. Mr Dacre began to do the honours.
‘Mr MacArthur and I have met before,’ said Miss Beezley, for it was she. ‘Curiously enough, the subject which we have just been discussing is one in which he takes, I think, a great interest. I was saying, Mr MacArthur, when you came in, that few of Tennyson’s works show the poetic faculty which Browning displays in “Sordello”.’
The Babe looked helplessly at Mr Dacre.
‘I think you are taking MacArthur out of his depth there,’ said Mr Dacre. ‘Was there something you wanted to see me about, MacArthur?’
The Babe delivered his message.
‘Oh, yes, certainly,’ said Mr Dacre. ‘Shall you be passing the School House tonight? If so, you might give the Headmaster my compliments, and say I shall be delighted.’
The Babe had had no intention of going out of his way to that extent, but the chance of escape offered by the suggestion was too good to be missed. He went.
On his way he called at Merevale’s, and asked to see Charteris.
‘Look here, Charteris,’ he said, ‘you remember telling me that Dacre was going to be married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, do you know her name by any chance?’
‘I ken it weel, ma braw Hielander. She is a Miss Beezley.’
‘Great Scott!’ said the Babe.
‘Hullo! Why, was your young heart set in that direction? You amaze and pain me, Babe. I think we’d better have a story on the subject in The Glow Worm, with you as hero and Dacre as villain. It shall end happily, of course. I’ll write it myself.’
‘You�
��d better,’ said the Babe, grimly. ‘Oh, I say, Charteris.’
‘Well?’
‘When I come as a boarder, I shall be a House-prefect, shan’t I, as I’m in the Sixth?’
‘Yes.’
‘And prefects have to go to breakfast and supper, and that sort of thing, pretty often with the House-beak, don’t they?’
‘Such are the facts of the case.’
‘Thanks. That’s all. Go away and do some work. Good-night.’
The cup went to Merevale’s that year. The Babe played a singularly brilliant game for them.
[8]
THE MANOEUVRES OF CHARTERIS
Chapter 1
‘Might I observe, sir—’
‘You may observe whatever you like,’ said the referee kindly. ‘Twenty-five.’
‘The rules say—’
‘I have given my decision. Twenty-_five_!’ A spot of red appeared on the official cheek. The referee, who had been heckled since the kick-off, was beginning to be annoyed.
‘The ball went behind without bouncing, and the rules say—’
‘Twenty-FIVE!!’ shouted the referee. ‘I am perfectly well aware what the rules say.’ And he blew his whistle with an air of finality. The secretary of the Bargees’ F.C. subsided reluctantly, and the game was restarted.
The Bargees’ match was a curious institution. Their real name was the Old Crockfordians. When, a few years before, the St Austin’s secretary had received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where their secretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows: ‘This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford. Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they’re certain to be decent fellows.’ And he arranged the fixture. It then transpired that Old Crockford was a village, and, from the appearance of the team on the day of battle, the Old Crockfordians seemed to be composed exclusively of the riff-raff of same. They wore green shirts with a bright yellow leopard over the heart, and C.F.C. woven in large letters about the chest. One or two of the outsides played in caps, and the team to a man criticized the referee’s decisions with point and pungency. Unluckily, the first year saw a weak team of Austinians rather badly beaten, with the result that it became a point of honour to wipe this off the slate before the fixture could be cut out of the card. The next year was also unlucky. The Bargees managed to score a penalty goal in the first half, and won on that. The match resulted in a draw in the following season, and by this time the thing had become an annual event.
Now, however, the School was getting some of its own back. The Bargees had brought down a player of some reputation from the North, and were as strong as ever in the scrum. But St Austin’s had a great team, and were carrying all before them. Charteris and Graham at half had the ball out to their centres in a way which made Merevale, who looked after the football of the School, feel that life was worth living. And when once it was out, things happened rapidly. MacArthur, the captain of the team, with Thomson as his fellow-centre, and Welch and Bannister on the wings, did what they liked with the Bargees’ three-quarters. All the School outsides had scored, even the back, who dropped a neat goal. The player from the North had scarcely touched the ball during the whole game, and altogether the Bargees were becoming restless and excited.
The kick-off from the twenty-five line which followed upon the small discussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinary circumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game original methods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow, and went away down the touch-line. He was almost through when he stumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass, someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent was muscular. He was swung off his feet, and the next moment the two came down together, Graham underneath. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder.
A doctor emerged from the crowd—there is always a doctor in a crowd—and made an examination.
‘Anything bad?’ asked the referee.
‘Collar-bone,’ said the doctor. ‘The usual, you know. Rather badly smashed. Nothing dangerous, of course. Be all right in a month or so. Stop his playing. Rather a pity. Much longer before half-time?’
‘No. I was just going to blow the whistle when this happened.’
The injured warrior was carried off, and the referee blew his whistle for half-time.
‘I say, Charteris,’ said MacArthur, ‘who the deuce am I to put half instead of Graham?’
‘Rogers used to play half in his childhood, I believe. But, I say, did you ever see such a scrag? Can’t you protest, or something?’
‘My dear chap, how can I? It’s on our own ground. These Bargee beasts are visitors, if you come to think of it. I’d like to wring the chap’s neck who did it. I didn’t spot who it was. Did you see?’
‘Rather. Their secretary. That man with the beard. I’ll get Prescott to mark him this half.’
Prescott was the hardest tackler in the School. He accepted the commission cheerfully, and promised to do his best by the bearded one.
Charteris certainly gave him every opportunity. When he threw the ball out of touch, he threw it neatly to the criminal with the beard, and Prescott, who stuck to him closer than a brother, had generally tackled him before he knew what had happened. After a time he began to grow thoughtful, and when there was a line-out went and stood among the three-quarters. In this way much of Charteris’s righteous retribution miscarried, but once or twice he had the pleasure and privilege of putting in a piece of tackling on his own account. The match ended with the enemy still intact, but considerably shaken. He was also rather annoyed. He spoke to Charteris on the subject as they were leaving the field.
‘I was watching you,’ he said, apropos of nothing apparently.
‘That must have been nice for you,’ said Charteris.
‘You wait.’
‘Certainly. Any time you’re passing, I’m sure—’
‘You ain’t ‘eard the last of me yet.’
‘That’s something of a blow,’ said Charteris cheerfully, and they parted.
Charteris, having got into his blazer, ran after Welch and MacArthur, and walked back with them to the House. All three of them were at Merevale’s.
‘Poor old Tony,’ said MacArthur. ‘Where have they taken him to? The House?’
‘Yes,’ said Welch. ‘I say, Babe, you ought to scratch this match next year. Tell ‘em the card’s full up or something.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. One expects fairly rough play in this sort of game. After all, we tackle pretty hard ourselves. I know I always try and go my hardest. If the man happens to be brittle, that’s his lookout,’ concluded the bloodthirsty Babe.
‘My dear man,’ said Charteris, ‘there’s all the difference between a decent tackle and a bally scrag like the one that doubled Tony up. You can’t break a chap’s collar-bone without trying to.’
‘Well, if you come to think of it, I suppose the man must have been fairly riled. You can’t expect a man to be in an angelic temper when his side’s been licked by thirty points.’
The Babe was one of those thoroughly excellent persons who always try, when possible, to make allowances for everybody.
‘Well, dash it,’ said Charteris indignantly, ‘if he had lost his hair he might have drawn the line at falling on Tony like that. It wasn’t the tackling part of it that crocked him. The beast simply jumped on him like a Hooligan. Anyhow, I made him sit up a bit before we finished. I gave Prescott the tip to mark him out of touch. Have you ever been collared by Prescott? It’s a liberal education. Now, there you are, you see. Take Prescott. He’s never crocked a man seriously in his life. I don’t count being winded. That’s absolutely an accident. Well, there you are, then. Prescott weighs thirteen-ten, and he’s all muscle, and he goes like a battering-ram. You’ll own that. He goes as hard as he jolly well knows how, and yet the worst he has ever done is to lay a man out for a couple of minutes while he gets his wind back. Well, compare him with
this Bargee man. The Bargee weighs a stone less and isn’t nearly as strong, and yet he smashes Tony’s collar-bone. It’s all very well, Babe, but you can’t get away from it. Prescott tackles fairly and the Bargee scrags.’
‘Yes,’ said MacArthur, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Rather,’ said Charteris. ‘I wish I’d broken his neck.’
‘By the way,’ said Welch, ‘you were talking to him after the match. What was he saying?’
Charteris laughed.
‘By Jove, I’d forgotten; he said I hadn’t heard the last of him, and that I was to wait.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, I behaved beautifully. I asked him to be sure and look in any time he was passing, and after a few chatty remarks we parted.’
‘I wonder if he meant anything.’
‘I believe he means to waylay me with a buckled belt. I shan’t stir out except with the Old Man or some other competent bodyguard. “‘Orrible outrage, shocking death of a St Austin’s schoolboy.” It would look rather well on the posters.’
Welch stuck strenuously to the point.
‘No, but, look here, Charteris,’ he said seriously, ‘I’m not rotting. You see, the man lives in Stapleton, and if he knows anything of School rules—’
‘Which he doesn’t probably. Why should he? Well?’—’If he knows anything of the rules, he’ll know that Stapleton’s out of bounds, and he may book you there and run you in to Merevale.’
‘Yes,’ said MacArthur. ‘I tell you what, you’d do well to knock off a few of your expeditions to Stapleton. You know you wouldn’t go there once a month if it wasn’t out of bounds. You’ll be a prefect next term. I should wait till then, if I were you.’
‘My dear chap, what does it matter? The worst that can happen to you for breaking bounds is a couple of hundred lines, and I’ve got a capital of four hundred already in stock. Besides, things would be so slow if you always kept in bounds. I always feel like a cross between Dick Turpin and Machiavelli when I go to Stapleton. It’s an awfully jolly feeling. Like warm treacle running down your back. It’s cheap at two hundred lines.’
‘You’re an awful fool,’ said Welch, rudely but correctly.