by Unknown
‘So it does,’ thought Babington. ‘I’ll risk it.’
‘You’ll be a fool if you do,’ croaked the gloomy Jenkins. ‘You’re bound to be caught.’ But the Ayes had it. Babington wrote off that night accepting the invitation.
It was with feelings of distinct relief that he heard Mr Seymour express to another master his intention of catching the twelve-fifteen train up to town. It meant that he would not be on the scene to see him start on the ‘Hall and Knight’. Unless luck were very much against him, Babington might reasonably hope that he would accept the imposition without any questions. He had taken the precaution to get the examples finished overnight, with the help of Peterson and Jenkins, aided by a weird being who actually appeared to like algebra, and turned out ten of the twenty problems in an incredibly short time in exchange for a couple of works of fiction (down) and a tea (at a date). He himself meant to catch the one-thirty, which would bring him to town in good time. Peterson had promised to answer his name at roll-call, a delicate operation, in which long practice had made him, like many others of the junior members of the House, no mean proficient.
It would be pleasant for a conscientious historian to be able to say that the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and that Babington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtain fell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, though it crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thought that it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong. From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies no considerable time, and Babington found himself at his destination with five minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they made their way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial in the lobby, and they were in their seats.
Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informed the world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statement was tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply the general to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproarious applause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, about three hours after it had begun.
‘What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?’ asked Babington’s cousin, as they made their way out.
‘Hullo, there’s that man Richards,’ he continued, before Babington could reply that of all possible actions he considered that of going and grubbing somewhere the most desirable. ‘Fellow I know at Guy’s, you know,’ he added, in explanation. ‘I’ll get him to join us. You’ll like him, I expect.’
Richards professed himself delighted, and shook hands with Babington with a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life had been a dreary blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himself again.’ I should like to join you, if you don’t mind including a friend of mine in the party,’ said Richards. ‘He was to meet me here. By the way, he’s the author of that new piece—_The Way of the World.’
‘Why, we’ve just been there.’
‘Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is.’
As he spoke a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent all the blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to the very extremities of his boots, Babington recognized Mr Seymour. The assurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was a fraud. Nay worse, a downright and culpable lie. He started with the vague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbs could be induced to work, Mr Seymour had arrived, and he was being introduced (oh, the tragic irony of it) to the man for whose benefit he was at that very moment supposed to be working out examples three hundred to three-twenty in ‘Hall and Knight’.
Mr Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington’s blood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt that this seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere veneer, a wile of guile, as the bard puts it. He remembered, with a pang, a story in some magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the light-hearted inquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape from prison, and pass guards and sentries apparently without their noticing him. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitor tapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger, reminded him that it was customary for condemned men to remain inside_ their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then the thought came to him that Mr Seymour had only seen him once, and so might possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothing special about Babington’s features that arrested the eye, and stamped them on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwise to look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite one another, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr Seymour, who had been looking attentively at him for some time, leaned forward and said in a tone evidently devoid of suspicion: ‘Haven’t we met before somewhere? I seem to remember your face.’
‘Er—no, no,’ replied Babington. ‘That is, I think not. We may have.’
‘I feel sure we have. What school are you at?’
Babington’s soul began to writhe convulsively.
‘What, what school? Oh, what school? Why, er—I’m at—er—Uppingham.’
Mr Seymour’s face assumed a pleased expression.
‘Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you know Mr Morton? He’s a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine.’
The room began to dance briskly before Babington’s eyes, but he clutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw.
‘Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know, Rugby. One’s always mixing the two up, you know. Isn’t one?’
Mr Seymour looked at him in amazement. Then he looked at the others as if to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him. Babington’s cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from his lips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had a fleeting impression that it was a little odd that a fellow should forget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that of Uppingham, or vice versa. Babington became an object of interest.
‘I say, Jack,’ said the cousin, ‘you’re feeling all right, aren’t you? I mean, you don’t seem to know what you’re talking about. If you’re going to be ill, say so, and I’ll prescribe for you.’
‘Is he at Rugby?’ asked Mr Seymour.
‘No, of course he’s not. How could he have got from Rugby to London in time for a morning performance? Why, he’s at St Austin’s.’
Mr Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then he chuckled. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘he’s not ill. We have met before, but under such painful circumstances that Master Babington very thoughtfully dissembled, in order not to remind me of them.’
He gave a brief synopsis of what had occurred. The audience, exclusive of Babington, roared with laughter.
‘I suppose,’ said the cousin, ‘you won’t prosecute, will you? It’s really such shocking luck, you know, that you ought to forget you’re a master.’
Mr Seymour stirred his tea and added another lump of sugar very carefully before replying. Babington watched him in silence, and wished that he would settle the matter quickly, one way or the other.
‘Fortunately for Babington,’ said Mr Seymour, ‘and unfortunately for the cause of morality, I am not a master. I was only a stop-gap, and my term of office ceased today at one o’clock. Thus the prisoner at the bar gets off on a technical point of law, and I trust it will be a lesson to him. I suppose you had the sense to do the imposition?’
‘Yes, sir, I sat up last night.’
‘Good. Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll reform, or another day you’ll come to a bad end. By the way, how did you manage about roll-call today?’
‘I thought that was an awfully good part just at the end of the first act,’ said Babington.
Mr Seymour smiled. Possibly from gratification.
‘Well, how did it go off?�
� asked Peterson that night.
‘Don’t, old chap,’ said Babington, faintly.
‘I told you so,’ said Jenkins at a venture.
But when he had heard the whole story he withdrew the remark, and commented on the wholly undeserved good luck some people seemed to enjoy.
[11]
‘THE TABBY TERROR’
The struggle between Prater’s cat and Prater’s cat’s conscience was short, and ended in the hollowest of victories for the former. The conscience really had no sort of chance from the beginning. It was weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, while the cat was in excellent training, and was, moreover, backed up by a strong temptation. It pocketed the stakes, which consisted of most of the contents of a tin of sardines, and left unostentatiously by the window. When Smith came in after football, and found the remains, he was surprised, and even pained. When Montgomery entered soon afterwards, he questioned him on the subject.
‘I say, have you been having a sort of preliminary canter with the banquet?’
‘No,’ said Montgomery. ‘Why?’
‘Somebody has,’ said Smith, exhibiting the empty tin. ‘Doesn’t seem to have had such a bad appetite, either.’
‘This reminds me of the story of the great bear, the medium bear, and the little ditto,’ observed Montgomery, who was apt at an analogy. ‘You may remember that when the great bear found his porridge tampered with, he—’
At this point Shawyer entered. He had been bidden to the feast, and was feeling ready for it.
‘Hullo, tea ready?’ he asked.
Smith displayed the sardine tin in much the same manner as the conjurer shows a pack of cards when he entreats you to choose one, and remember the number.
‘You haven’t finished already, surely? Why, it’s only just five.’
‘We haven’t even begun,’ said Smith. ‘That’s just the difficulty. The question is, who has been on the raid in here?’
‘No human being has done this horrid thing,’ said Montgomery. He always liked to introduce a Holmes-Watsonian touch into the conversation. ‘In the first place, the door was locked, wasn’t it, Smith?’
‘By Jove, so it was. Then how on earth—?’
‘Through the window, of course. The cat, equally of course. I should like a private word with that cat.’
‘I suppose it must have been.’
‘Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, which is strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof of its guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson?’
The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very centre of it there was a footprint.
‘I traced his little footprints in the butter,’ said Montgomery. ‘Now, is that the mark of a human foot?’
The jury brought in a unanimous verdict of guilty against the missing animal, and over a sorrowful cup of tea, eked out with bread and jam—butter appeared to be unpopular—discussed the matter in all its bearings. The cat had not been an inmate of Prater’s House for a very long time, and up till now what depredation it had committed had been confined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got its hand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensive scale. The Tabby Terror had begun. Where would it end? The general opinion was that something would have to be done about it. No one seemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks, bits of string, and horse-ponds. Smith rolled the word ‘rat-poison’ luxuriously round his tongue. Shawyer, who was something of an expert on the range, babbled of air-guns.
At tea on the following evening the first really serious engagement of the campaign took place. The cat strolled into the tea-room in the patronizing way characteristic of his kind, but was heavily shelled with lump-sugar, and beat a rapid retreat. That was the signal for the outbreak of serious hostilities. From that moment its paw was against every man, and the tale of the things it stole is too terrible to relate in detail. It scored all along the line. Like Death in the poem, it knocked at the doors of the highest and the lowest alike. Or rather, it did not exactly knock. It came in without knocking. The palace of the prefect and the hovel of the fag suffered equally. Trentham, the head of the House, lost sausages to an incredible amount one evening, and the next day Ripton, of the Lower Third, was robbed of his one ewe lamb in the shape of half a tin of anchovy paste. Panic reigned.
It was after this matter of the sausages that a luminous idea occurred to Trentham. He had been laid up with a slight football accident, and his family, reading between the lines of his written statement that he ‘had got crocked at footer, nothing much, only (rather a nuisance) might do him out of the House-matches’, a notification of mortal injuries, and seeming to hear a death-rattle through the words ‘felt rather chippy yesterday’, had come down en masse to investigate. En masse, that is to say, with the exception of his father, who said he was too busy, but felt sure it was nothing serious. (‘Why, when I was a boy, my dear, I used to think nothing of an occasional tumble. There’s nothing the matter with Dick. Why, etc., etc.’)
Trentham’s sister was his first visitor.
‘I say,’ said he, when he had satisfied her on the subject of his health, ‘would you like to do me a good turn?’
She intimated that she would be delighted, and asked for details.
‘Buy the beak’s cat,’ hissed Trentham, in a hoarse whisper.
‘Dick, it was your leg that you hurt, wasn’t it? Not—not your head?’ she replied. ‘I mean—’
‘No, I really mean it. Why can’t you? It’s a perfectly simple thing to do.’
‘But what is a beak? And why should I buy its cat?’
‘A beak’s a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater’s got a cat lately, and the beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round over half a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he’s always bagging things everywhere. You’d be doing everyone a kindness if you would take him on. He’ll get lynched some day if you don’t. Besides, you want a cat for your new house, surely. Keep down the mice, and that sort of thing, you know. This animal’s a demon for mice.’ This was a telling argument. Trentham’s sister had lately been married, and she certainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home. ‘As for beetles,’ continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage, ‘they simply daren’t come out of their lairs for fear of him.’
‘If he eats beetles,’ objected his sister, ‘he can’t have a very good coat.’
‘He doesn’t eat them. Just squashes them, you know, like a policeman. He’s a decent enough beast as far as looks go.’
‘But if he steals things—’
‘No, don’t you see, he only does that here, because the Praters don’t interfere with him and don’t let us do anything to him. He won’t try that sort of thing on with you. If he does, get somebody to hit him over the head with a boot-jack or something. He’ll soon drop it then. You might as well, you know. The House’ll simply black your boots if you do.’
‘But would Mr Prater let me have the cat?’
‘Try him, anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you ever loved, and that sort of thing.’
‘Very well. I’ll try.’
‘Thanks, awfully. And, I say, you might just look in here on your way out and report.’
Mrs James Williamson, nee Miss Trentham, made her way dutifully to the Merevale’s part of the House. Mrs Prater had expressed a hope that she would have some tea before catching her train. With tea it is usual to have milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house, to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thought suitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on hand early. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently, and mewing in a minor key, Mrs Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. He certainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleek coat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury. His scheming brain was out of sight in a shapely head.
‘Oh, what a lovely cat!’ said Mrs Williamson.
‘Yes, isn’t he,’ agreed Mrs Prater. ‘We are very proud of him.’
‘Such a beautiful coat!’
‘And such a sweet purr!’
‘He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks?’
Had he any tricks! Why, Mrs Williamson, he could do everything except speak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country. Puss, puss.
Captain Kettle came at last reluctantly, died for his country in record time, and flashed back again to the saucer. He had an important appointment. Sorry to appear rude and all that sort of thing, don’t you know, but he had to see a cat about a mouse.
‘Well?’ said Trentham, when his sister looked in upon him an hour later.
‘Oh, Dick, it’s the nicest cat I ever saw. I shall never be happy if I don’t get it.’
‘Have you bought it?’ asked the practical Trentham.
‘My dear Dick, I couldn’t. We couldn’t bargain about a cat during tea. Why, I never met Mrs Prater before this afternoon.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ admitted Trentham, gloomily. ‘Anyhow, look here, if anything turns up to make the beak want to get rid of it, I’ll tell him you’re dead nuts on it. See?’
For a fortnight after this episode matters went on as before. Mrs Williamson departed, thinking regretfully of the cat she had left behind her.
Captain Kettle died for his country with moderate regularity, and on one occasion, when he attempted to extract some milk from the very centre of a fag’s tea-party, almost died for another reason. Then the end came suddenly.
Trentham had been invited to supper one Sunday by Mr Prater. When he arrived it became apparent to him that the atmosphere was one of subdued gloom. At first he could not understand this, but soon the reason was made clear. Captain Kettle had, in the expressive language of the man in the street, been and gone and done it. He had been left alone that evening in the drawing-room, while the House was at church, and his eye, roaming restlessly about in search of evil to perform, had lighted upon a cage. In that cage was a special sort of canary, in its own line as accomplished an artiste as Captain Kettle himself. It sang with taste and feeling, and made itself generally agreeable in a number of little ways. But to Captain Kettle it was merely a bird. One of the poets sings of an acquaintance of his who was so constituted that ‘a primrose by the river’s brim a simple primrose was to him, and it was nothing more’. Just so with Captain Kettle. He was not the cat to make nice distinctions between birds. Like the cat in another poem, he only knew they made him light and salutary meals. So, with the exercise of considerable ingenuity, he extracted that canary from its cage and ate it. He was now in disgrace.