by Unknown
The Head was a man who tried his very hardest to like each and all of his fellow-creatures, but he felt bound to admit that he liked most people a great, a very great, deal better than he liked the gentleman who had just sent in his card. Sir Alfred’s manner always jarred upon him. It was so exactly the antithesis of his own. He was quiet and dignified, and addressed everybody alike, courteously. Sir Alfred was restless and fussy. His manner was always dictatorial and generally rude. When he had risen in the House to make his maiden speech, calling the attention of the Speaker to what he described as ‘a thorough draught’, he had addressed himself with such severity to that official, that a party of Siamese noblemen, who, though not knowing a word of English, had come to listen to the debate, had gone away with the impression that he was the prime minister. No wonder the Headmaster sighed.
‘Show him in, Parker,’ said he resignedly.
‘Yessir.’
Parker retired, leaving the Head to wonder what his visitor’s grievance might be this time. Sir Alfred rarely called without a grievance, generally connected with the trespassing of the School on his land.
‘Good evening, Sir Alfred,’ he said, as his visitor whirled into the room.
‘O-o-o, this sort of thing won’t do, you know, Mr Perceval,’ said Sir Alfred fussily, adjusting a pair of gold pince-nez on his nose. The Head’s name, which has not before been mentioned, was the Reverend Herbert Perceval, M.A. He had shivered at the sound of the ‘O-o-o’ which had preceded Sir Alfred’s remark. He knew, as did other unfortunate people, that the great man was at his worst when he said ‘O-o-o’. In moments of comparative calm he said ‘Er’.
‘I can’t put up with it, you know, Mr Perceval. It’s too much. A great deal too much.’
‘You refer to—?’ suggested the Head, with a patience that did him credit.
‘This eternal trespassing and tramping in and out of my grounds all day.’
‘You have been misinformed, I fear, Sir Alfred. I have not trespassed in your grounds for—ah—a considerable time.’ The Head could not resist this thrust. In his unregenerate ‘Varsity days he had been a power at the Union, where many a foeman had exposed himself to a verbal counter from him with disastrous results. Now the fencing must be done with buttons on the foils.
‘You—what—I don’t follow you, Mr Perceval.’
‘I understand you to reproach me for trespassing and—ah—tramping in and out of your grounds all day. Was that not your meaning?’
Sir Alfred almost danced with impatience.
‘No, no, no. You misunderstand me. You don’t follow my drift.’
‘In that case, I beg your pardon. I gathered from the extreme severity of your attitude towards me that I was the person to whom you referred.’
‘No, no, no. I’ve come here to complain of your boys.’
It occurred to the Head to ask if the complaint embraced the entire six hundred of them, or merely referred to one of them. But he reflected that the longer he fenced, the longer his visitor would stay. And he decided, in spite of the illicit pleasure to be derived from the exercise, that it was not worth while.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ continued Sir Alfred, ‘my keepers tell me the woods were full of them, sir.’
The Head suggested that possibly the keepers had exaggerated.
‘Possibly. Possibly they may have exaggerated. But that is not the point. The nuisance is becoming intolerable, Mr Perceval, perfectly intolerable. It is time to take steps.’
‘I have already done all that can be done. I have placed your land out of bounds, considerably out of bounds indeed. And I inflict the severest penalties when a breach of the rule is reported to me.’
‘It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.’
‘I can scarcely do more, I fear, Sir Alfred. There are more than six hundred boys at St Austin’s, and it is not within my power to place them all under my personal supervision.’
Here the Head, who had an eye to the humorous, conjured up a picture of six hundred Austinians going for walks, two and two, the staff posted at intervals down the procession, and himself bringing up the rear. He made a mental mem. to laugh when his visitor had retired.
‘H’m,’ said the baffled M.P. thoughtfully, adjusting his pince-nez once more. ”M no. No, perhaps not. But’—here he brightened up—’you can punish them when they do trespass.’
‘That is so, Sir Alfred. I can and invariably do.’
‘Then punish that what’s-his-name, Plinkett, Plunkett—I’ve got the name down somewhere. Yes, Plunkett. I thought so. Punish Plunkett.’
‘Plunkett!’ said the Head, taken completely by surprise. He, in common with the rest of the world, had imagined Plunkett to be a perfect pattern of what should be. A headmaster, like other judges of character, has his failures.
‘Plunkett. Yes, that is the name. Boy with spectacles. Good gracious, Mr Perceval, don’t tell me the boy gave me a false name.’
‘No. His name is Plunkett. Am I to understand that he was trespassing on your land? Surely there is some mistake? The boy’s a School-prefect.’
Here it suddenly flashed upon his mind that he had used that expression before in the course of the day, on the occasion when Mr Thompson first told him of his suspicions in connection with Jim. ‘Why, Mr Thompson, the boy’s a School-prefect,’ had been his exact words. School-prefects had been in his eyes above suspicion. It is a bad day for a school when they are not so. Had that day arrived for St Austin’s? he asked himself.
‘He may be a School-prefect, Mr Perceval, but the fact remains that he is a trespasser, and ought from your point of view to be punished for breaking bounds.’
The Head suddenly looked almost cheerful again.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course. I thought that there must be an explanation. The rules respecting bounds, Sir Alfred, do not apply to School-prefects, only to the rest of the School.’
‘Indeed?’ said Sir Alfred. His tone should have warned the Head that something more was coming, but it did not. He continued.
‘Of course it was very wrong of him to trespass on your land, but I have no doubt that he did it quite unintentionally. I will speak to him, and I think I can guarantee that he will not do it again.’
‘Oh,’ said his visitor. ‘That is very gratifying, I am sure. Might I ask, Mr Perceval, if School-prefects at St Austin’s have any other privileges?’
The Head began to look puzzled. There was something in his visitor’s manner which suggested unpleasant possibilities.
‘A few,’ he replied. ‘They have a few technical privileges, which it would be a matter of some little time to explain.’
‘It must be very pleasant to be a prefect at St Austin’s,’ said Sir Alfred nastily. ‘Very pleasant indeed. Might I ask, Mr Perceval, if the technical privileges to which you refer include—smoking?’
The Head started as if, supposing such a thing possible, someone had pinched him. He did not know what to make of the question. From the expression on his face his visitor did not appear to be perpetrating a joke.
‘No,’ he said sharply, ‘they do not include smoking.’
‘I merely asked because this was found by my keeper on the boy when he caught him.’
He produced a small silver match-box. The Head breathed again. The reputation of the School-prefect, though shaky, was still able to come up to the scratch.
‘A match-box is scarcely a proof that a boy has been smoking, I think,’ said he. ‘Many boys carry matches for various purposes, I believe. I myself, though a non-smoker, frequently place a box in my pocket.’
For answer Sir Alfred laid a bloated and exceedingly vulgar-looking plush tobacco-pouch on the table beside the match-box.
‘That also,’ he observed, ‘was found in his pocket by my keeper.’
He dived his hand once more into his coat. ‘And also this,’ he said.
And, with the air of a card-player who trumps his opponent’s ace, he placed on the
pouch a pipe. And, to make the matter, if possible, worse, the pipe was not a new pipe. It was caked within and coloured without, a pipe that had seen long service. The only mitigating circumstance that could possibly have been urged in favour of the accused, namely that of ‘first offence’, had vanished.
‘It is pleasant,’ said Sir Alfred with laborious sarcasm, ‘to find a trespasser doing a thing which has caused the dismissal of several keepers. Smoking in my woods I—will—not—permit. I will not have my property burnt down while I can prevent it. Good evening, Mr Perceval.’ With these words he made a dramatic exit.
For some minutes after he had gone the Head remained where he stood, thinking. Then he went across the room and touched the bell.
‘Parker,’ he said, when that invaluable officer appeared, ‘go across to Mr Ward’s House, and tell him I wish to see Plunkett. Say I wish to see him at once.’
‘Yessir.’
After ten minutes had elapsed, Plunkett entered the room, looking nervous.
‘Sit down, Plunkett.’
Plunkett collapsed into a seat. His eye had caught sight of the smoking apparatus on the table.
The Head paced the room, something after the fashion of the tiger at the Zoo, whose clock strikes lunch.
‘Plunkett,’ he said, suddenly, ‘you are a School-prefect.’
‘Yes, sir,’ murmured Plunkett. The fact was undeniable.
‘You know the duties of a School-prefect?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And yet you deliberately break one of the most important rules of the School. How long have you been in the habit of smoking?’
Plunkett evaded the question.
‘My father lets me smoke, sir, when I’m at home.’
(A hasty word in the reader’s ear. If ever you are accused of smoking, please—for my sake, if not for your own—try to refrain from saying that your father lets you do it at home. It is a fatal mistake.)
At this, to employ a metaphor, the champagne of the Head’s wrath, which had been fermenting steadily during his late interview, got the better of the cork of self-control, and he exploded. If the Mutual Friend ever has grandchildren he will probably tell them with bated breath the story of how the Head paced the room, and the legend of the things he said. But it will be some time before he will be able to speak about it with any freedom. At last there was a lull in the storm.
‘I am not going to expel you, Plunkett. But you cannot come back after the holidays. I will write to your father to withdraw you.’ He pointed to the door. Plunkett departed in level time.
‘What did the Old ‘Un want you for?’ asked Dallas, curiously, when he returned to the study.
Plunkett had recovered himself by this time sufficiently to be able to tell a lie.
‘He wanted to tell me he’d heard from my father about my leaving.’
‘About your leaving!’ Dallas tried to keep his voice as free as possible from triumphant ecstasy.
‘Are you leaving? When?’
‘This term.’
‘Oh!’ said Dallas. It was an uncomfortable moment. He felt that at least some conventional expression of regret ought to proceed from him.
‘Don’t trouble to lie about being sorry,’ said Plunkett with a sneer.
‘Thanks,’ said Dallas, gratefully, ‘since you mention it, I rather think I won’t.’
[14]
THE LONG RUN
Vaughan came up soon afterwards, and Dallas told him the great news. They were neither of them naturally vindictive, but the Mutual Friend had been a heavy burden to them during his stay in the House, and they did not attempt to conceal from themselves their unfeigned pleasure at the news of his impending departure.
‘I’ll never say another word against Mr Plunkett, senior, in my life,’ said Vaughan. ‘He’s a philanthropist. I wonder what the Mutual’s going to do? Gentleman of leisure, possibly. Unless he’s going to the ‘Varsity.’
‘Same thing, rather. I don’t know a bit what he’s going to do, and I can’t say I care much. He’s going, that’s the main point.’
‘I say,’ said Vaughan. ‘I believe the Old Man was holding a sort of reception tonight. I know he had Thomson over to his House. Do you think there’s a row on?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Probably only wanted to see if he was all right after the mile. By Jove, it was a bit of a race, wasn’t it?’ And the conversation drifted off into matters athletic.
There were two persons that night who slept badly. Jim lay awake until the College clock had struck three, going over in his mind the various points of his difficulties, on the chance of finding a solution of them. He fell asleep at a quarter past, without having made any progress. The Head, also, passed a bad night. He was annoyed for many reasons, principally, perhaps, because he had allowed Sir Alfred Venner to score so signal a victory over him. Besides that, he was not easy in his mind about Jim. He could not come to a decision. The evidence was all against him, but evidence is noted for its untrustworthiness. The Head would have preferred to judge the matter from his knowledge of Jim’s character. But after the Plunkett episode he mistrusted his powers in that direction. He thought the matter over for a time, and then, finding himself unable to sleep, got up and wrote an article for a leading review on the subject of the Doxology. The article was subsequently rejected—which proves that Providence is not altogether incapable of a kindly action—but it served its purpose by sending its author to sleep.
Barrett, too, though he did not allow it to interfere with his slumbers, was considerably puzzled as to what he ought to do about the cups which he had stumbled upon in the wood. He scarcely felt equal to going to the Dingle again to fetch them, and yet every minute he delayed made the chances of their remaining there more remote. He rather hoped that Reade would think of some way out of it. He had a great respect for Reade’s intellect, though he did not always show it. The next day was the day of the InterHouse cross-country race. It was always fixed for the afternoon after Sports Day, a most inconvenient time for it, as everybody who had exerted or over-exerted himself the afternoon before was unable to do himself justice. Today, contrary to general expectation, both Drake and Thomson had turned out. The knowing ones, however, were prepared to bet anything you liked (except cash), that both would drop out before the first mile was over. Merevale’s pinned their hopes on Welch. At that time Welch had not done much long-distance running. He confined himself to the hundred yards and the quarter. But he had it in him to do great things, as he proved in the following year, when he won the half, and would have beaten the great Mitchell-Jones record for the mile, but for an accident, or rather an event, which prevented his running. The tale of which is told elsewhere.
The course for the race was a difficult one. There were hedges and brooks to be negotiated, and, worst of all, ploughed fields. The first ploughed field usually thinned the ranks of the competitors considerably. The distance was about ten miles.
The race started at three o’clock. Jim and Welch, Merevale’s first string, set the pace from the beginning, and gradually drew away from the rest. Drake came third, and following him the rest of the Houses in a crowd.
Welch ran easily and springily; Jim with more effort. He felt from the start that he could not last. He resolved to do his best for the honour of the House, but just as the second mile was beginning, the first of the ploughed fields appeared in view, stretching, so it appeared to Jim, right up to the horizon. He groaned.
‘Go on, Welch,’ he gasped. ‘I’m done.’
Welch stopped short in his stride, and eyed him critically.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘better get back to the House. You overdid it yesterday. Lie down somewhere. G’bye.’ And he got into his stride again. Jim watched his figure diminish, until at last it was a shapeless dot of white against the brown surface. Then he lay down on his back and panted.
It was in this attitude that Drake found him. For a moment an almost irresistible wish seized him to act in the same way. There was an u
nstudied comfort about Jim’s pose which appealed to him strongly. His wind still held out, but his legs were beginning to feel as if they did not belong to him at all. He pulled up for an instant.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘done up?’
For reply Jim merely grunted.
‘Slacker,’ said Drake. ‘Where’s Welch?’
‘Miles ahead.’
‘Oh Lord!’ groaned Drake and, pulling himself together, set out painfully once more across the heavy surface of the field.
Jim lay where he was a little longer. The recollection of the other runners, who might be expected to arrive shortly, stirred him to action. He did not wish to interview everyone on the subject of his dropping out. He struck off at right angles towards the hedge on the left. As he did so, the first of the crowd entered the field. Simpson major, wearing the colours of Perkins’s House on his manly bosom, was leading. Behind him came a group of four, two School House, Dallas of Ward’s, and a representative of Prater’s. A minute later they were followed by a larger group, consisting this time of twenty or more runners—all that was left of the fifty who had started. The rest had dropped out at the sight of the ploughed field.
Jim watched the procession vanish over the brow of the hill, and, as it passed out of sight, began to walk slowly back to the School again.
He reached it at last, only to find it almost entirely deserted. In Merevale’s House there was nobody. He had hoped that Charteris and Tony might have been somewhere about. When he had changed into his ordinary clothes, he made a tour of the School grounds. The only sign of life, as far as he could see, was Biffen, who was superintending the cutting of the grass on the cricket-field. During the winter Biffen always disappeared, nobody knew where, returning at the beginning of Sports Week to begin preparations for the following cricket season. It had been stated that during the winter he shut himself up and lived on himself after the fashion of a bear. Others believed that he went and worked in some Welsh mine until he was needed again at the School. Biffen himself was not communicative on the subject, a fact which led a third party to put forward the awful theory that he was a professional association player and feared to mention his crime in a school which worshipped Rugby.