Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




                             THE HUMAN BOY
                              AND THE WAR


                                   BY



                                New York
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                  1916

                         _All rights reserved_




                             Copyright 1916
                        BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY


             Set up and electrotyped.  Published June, 1916
                        Reprinted October, 1916.




                                CONTENTS

The Battle of the Sand-Pit
The Mystery of Fortescue
The Countryman of Kant
Travers Minor, Scout
The Hutchings Testimonial
The Fight
Percy Minimus and His Tommy
The Prize Poem
The Revenge
The "Turbot’s" Aunt
Cornwallis and Me and Fate
For the Red Cross
The Last of Mitchell




                             THE HUMAN BOY
                              AND THE WAR



                       THE BATTLE OF THE SAND-PIT


After the war had fairly got going, naturally we thought a good deal
about it, and it was explained to us by Fortescue that, behind the
theory of Germany licking us, or us licking Germany, as the case might
be, there were two great psychical ideas. As I was going to be a soldier
myself, the actual fighting interested me most, but the psychical ideas
were also interesting, because Fortescue said that often the cause won
the battle.  Therefore it was better to have a good psychical idea
behind you, like us, than a rotten one, like Germany.  I always thought
the best men and the best ships and the best brains and the most money
were simply bound to come out top in the long run; but Fortescue said
that a bad psychical idea behind these things often wrecks the whole
show.  And so I asked him if we had got a good psychical idea behind us,
and he said we had a champion one, whereas the Germans were trusting to
a perfectly deadly psychical idea, which was bound to have wrecked them
in any case--even if they’d had twenty million men instead of ten.

So that was all right, though, no doubt, the Germans think their idea of
being top dog of the whole world is really finer than ours, which is
"Live and let live."  And, as I pointed out to Fortescue, no doubt if we
had such a fearfully fine opinion of ourselves as the Germans have, then
we also should want to be top dog of the world.

And Fortescue said:--

"That’s just it, Travers major.  Thanks to our sane policy of respecting
the rights of all men, and never setting ourselves up as the only nation
that counts, we do count--first and foremost; but if we’d gone out into
the whole earth and bawled that we were going to make it Anglo-Saxon,
then we should have been laughed at, as the Germans are now; and we
should dismally have failed as colonists, just as they have."

So, of course, I saw all he meant by his psychical idea, and no doubt it
was a jolly fine thought; and most, though not all, of the Sixth saw it
also.  But the Fifth saw it less, and the Fourth didn’t see it at all.
The Fourth were, in fact, rather an earthy lot about this time, and they
seemed to have a foggy sort of notion that might is right; or, if it
isn’t, it generally comes out right, which to the minds of the Fourth
amounted to the same thing.

The war naturally had a large effect upon us, and according as we looked
at the war, so you could judge of our opinions in general.  I and my
brother, Travers minor, and Briggs and Saunders--though Briggs and
Travers minor were themselves in the Lower Fourth--were interested in
the strategy and higher command.  We foretold what was going to happen
next, and were sometimes quite right; whereas chaps like Abbott and
Blades and Mitchell and Pegram and Rice were only interested in the
brutal part, and the bloodshed and the grim particulars about the
enemy’s trenches after a sortie, and so on.

In time, curiously enough, there got to be two war parties in the
school.  Of course they both wanted England to win, but we took a higher
line about it, and looked on to the end, and argued about the division
of the spoil, and the general improvement of Europe, and the new map,
and the advancement of better ideas, and so on; while Rice and Pegram
and such-like took the "horrible slaughter" line, and rejoiced to hear
of parties surrounded, and Uhlans who had been eating hay for a week
before they were captured, and the decks of battleships just before they
sank, and such-like necessary but very unfortunate things.

I said to Mitchell--

"It may interest you to know that real soldiers never talk about the
hideous side of war; and it would be a good deal more classy if you
chaps tried to understand the meaning of it all, instead of wallowing in
the dreadful details."

And Mitchell answered--

"The details bring it home to us and make us see red."

And I replied to Mitchell--

"What the dickens d’you want to see red for?"

And he said--

"Everybody ought to at a time like this."

Of course, with such ignorance you can’t argue, any more than you could
with Rice, when he swore that he’d give up his home and family gladly in
exchange for the heavenly joy of putting a bayonet through a German
officer.  It wasn’t the spirit of war, and I told him so, and he called
me "von Travers," and said that as I was going to be a soldier, he
hoped, for the sake of the United Kingdom in general, there would be no
war while I was in command of anybody.

Gradually there got to be a bit of feeling in the air, and we gave out
that we stood for tactics and strategy and brain-power, and Rice and his
lot gave out that they stood for hacking their way through.  And as for
strategy, they had the cheek to say that, if it came to actual battle,
the Fourth would back its strategy against the Sixth every time. It was
a sort of challenge, in fact, and rested chiefly on their complete
ignorance of what strategy really meant.

When I asked Mitchell who were the strategists of the Fourth, he gave it
away by saying--

"Me and Pegram."

Well, he and Pegram were merely cunning--nothing more.  Mitchell was a
good mathematician, and in money matters he excelled on a low plane;
while Pegram was admitted to be a master in the art of cribbing, but no
other.  His bent of mind had been attracted to the subject of cribbing
from the first, and while I hated him, and knew that he could never come
to much good, I was bound to admit the stories told about his cribbing
exploits showed great ingenuity combined with nerve.  By a bitter irony,
theology was his best subject, but only thanks to the possession of a
Bible one inch square.  He had found it when doing Christmas shopping
with his aunt, who was his only relation, owing to his being an orphan,
and when he asked her to buy it for him as one of his Christmas
presents, she did so with pleasure and surprise, little dreaming of what
was passing in his mind.  I never saw the book, nor wished to see it,
but Briggs, who did, told me it contained everything, only in such
frightfully small print that you wanted a magnifying glass to read it.
Needless to say, Pegram had the magnifying glass.  And, thus armed, he
naturally did Scripture papers second to none.  He also manipulated a
catapult for the benefit of his friends in the Lower Fourth, of whom he
had a great many, and with this instrument, such was his delicacy of
aim, he could send answers to questions in an examination through the
air to other chaps, in the shape of paper pillets.  He could also hurl
insults in this way, or, in fact, anything.  Once he actually fired his
Bible across three rows of forms to Abbott.  It flew through the air and
fell at Abbott’s feet, who instantly put one on it.  But Brown, who was
the master in command on the occasion, looked up at the critical moment
and saw a strange object passing through the air.  Only he failed to
mark it down.

"What was that?" said Brown to Rice, who sat three chaps off Abbott.

"A moth, I think, sir," said Rice.

"Extraordinary time for a moth to be flying," said Brown.

"Very, sir," said Rice.

"Don’t let it occur again, anyway," said Brown, who never investigated
anything, but always ordered that it shouldn’t occur again.

"No, sir," said Rice.

Then Abbott bent down to scratch his ankle, and all was well.

And this Pegram was supposed to have strategy as good as ours!

I never thought a real chance of a conflict would come, but it actually
did in a most unexpected manner just before the holidays.  The weather
turned cold for a week, and then, after about three frosts, we had a big
snow, and in about a day and a night there was nearly a foot of it.
And, walking through the West Wood with Blades, I pointed out that the
sand-pit, under the edge of the fir trees, would be a very fine spot for
a battle on a small scale.

I said--

"If one army was above the sand-pit, and another army was down here,
trying to storm the position, there would be an opportunity for a
remarkably good fight and plenty of strategy; and if I led the Fifth and
Sixth against the sand-pit, or if I defended the sand-pit against
attacks by the Upper and Lower Fourth, the result would be very
interesting."

And Blades agreed with me.  He said he believed that it would give the
Upper and Lower Fourth frightful pleasure to have a battle, and he was
certain they would be exceedingly pleased at the idea. In fact, he went
off at once to find Pegram and, if possible, Rice and Mitchell.  The
school was taking a walk that afternoon, as the football ground was
eight inches under snow; and some were digging in the snow for eating
chestnuts, of which a good many were to be found in West Wood, and
others were scattered about.  So Blades went to find Mitchell, Rice, and
Pegram, and I considered the situation.  The edge of the sand-pit was
about eight feet high, and a frontal attack would have been very
difficult, if not impossible; but there was an approach on the left--a
gradual slope, fairly easy--and another on the right, rather difficult,
as it consisted of loose stones and tree roots.  On the whole, I thought
I would rather defend than attack; but as, if anything came of it, I
should be the challenger, I felt it would be more sporting to let the
foe choose.

Then Rice and Mitchell came back with Blades, and they said that nothing
would give them greater pleasure than a fight.  They had heard my idea,
and thought exceedingly well of it.  They examined the spot and
pretended to consider strategy, but, of course, they knew nothing about
the possibilities of defence and attack.  What they really wanted to
know was how many troops they would have, and how many we should.  We
counted up and found that in the Fifth and Sixth, leaving out about four
who were useless, and Perkins, who would have been valuable, but was
crocked at footer for the moment, we should number thirty-one, while the
Upper and Lower Fourth would have thirty-eight. I agreed to that, and
Rice made the rather good suggestion that we should each have ten kids
behind the fighting line to make ammunition.  And I said I hoped there
would be no stones in the snowballs, and Mitchell said the Fourth didn’t
consist of Germans, and I might be sure they would fight as fair as we
did, if not fairer.

So it was settled for the next Saturday, and Brown and Fortescue
consented to umpire the battle, and Fortescue showed great interest in
it.

There were a good many preliminaries to decide, and I asked Mitchell
what chap was to be general-in-chief for the Fourth, and, much to my
surprise, he said that Pegram was.  And, still more to my surprise, he
said that Pegram wished to attack and not defend.  This alone showed how
little they knew about strategy; but I only said "All right," and
Mitchell actually said that Pegram backed the Fourth to take the
sand-pit inside an hour!  And I said that pride generally went before a
fall.  Then I saw Pegram--which was at a meeting of the
commanders-in-chief--and we arranged all the details. He asked about the
fallen, and I said that nobody would fall; but he said he thought some
very likely would; and he also said that it would be more like the real
thing and more a reward for strategy if, when anybody was fairly bowled
over in the battle and prevented from continuing without a rest, that
that soldier was considered as a casualty and taken to the rear.  This
was pretty good for Pegram; but as our superior position on the top of
the sand-pit was bound to make our fire more severe than his, and put
more of his men out of action, I pointed that out.  But he said that if
I thought our fire would be more severe than his, I was much mistaken.
He said the volume of his fire would be greater, which was true.  So I
let him have his way, and we each selected ten kids for the ammunition.
Travers minor didn’t much like fighting against me, but, of course, he
had to, though it was rather typical of Mitchell and Pegram that they
were very suspicious of him before the battle, and wouldn’t tell him any
of the strategy, or give him a command in their army, for fear of his
being a traitor. And they felt the same to Briggs, though, of course,
Briggs and Travers minor were really just as keen about victory for the
Fourth as anybody else in it. And the only reason why my brother didn’t
like fighting against me was that, with my strategy, he felt pretty sure
I must win.

The generals--Pegram and I--visited the battlefield twice more, and
arranged where the wounded were to lie and where the umpires were to
stand, in comparative safety behind a tree on the right wing; but, of
course, we didn’t discuss tactics or say a word about our battle plans.
The fight was to last one hour, and if at the end of that time we still
held the sand-pit, we were the victors. And for half an hour before the
battle began, we were to make ammunition and pile snow and do what we
liked to increase the chances of victory.

I, of course, led the Fifth and Sixth, and under me I had Saunders, as
general of the Sixth, and Norris, as general of the Fifth.  As for the
enemy, Pegram was generalissimo, to use his own word, and Rice and
Abbott and Mitchell and Blades were his captains.  It got jolly
interesting just before the battle, and everybody was frightfully keen,
and the kids who were not doing orderly and red-cross work, were allowed
to stand on a slight hill fifty yards from the sand-pit and watch the
struggle.

And on the morning of the great day, happening to meet Rice and
Mitchell, I asked them what was the psychical idea behind the attack of
the Fourth; and Rice said his psychical idea was to give the Sixth about
the worst time it had ever had; and Mitchell said his psychical idea was
to make the Sixth wish it had never been born.  They meant it, too, for
there was a lot of bitter feeling against us, and I realised that we
were in for a real battle, though there could only be one end, of
course. They had thirty-eight fighters to our thirty-one, and they had
rather the best of the weight and size; but in the Sixth we had Forbes
and Forrester, both of the first eleven and hard chuckers; and we had
three other hard chuckers and first eleven men in the Fifth, besides
Williams, who was the champion long-distance cricket ball thrower in the
school.

We had all practised a good deal, and also instructed the kids in the
art of making snowballs hard and solid.  The general feeling with us was
that we had the brains and the strategy, while the Fourth had rather the
heavier metal, but would not apply it so well as us.  When a man fell,
the ambulance, in the shape of two red-cross kids, was to conduct him to
a place safe from fire in the rear; and when he was being taken from the
firing-line, he was not to be fired at, but the battle was to go on,
though the red-cross kids were to be respected.  I should like to draw a
diagram of the field, like the diagrams in the newspapers, but that I
cannot do. I can, however, explain that, when the great moment arrived,
I manned the top of the sand-pit with my army, and during the half hour
of preparation threw up a wall of snow all along the front of the
sand-pit nearly three feet high.  And along this wall I arranged the
Fifth, led by Norris, on the right wing.  Five men, commanded by
Saunders, specially guarded the incline on the left, which was our weak
spot, and the remaining ten men, all from the Sixth, took up a position
five yards to the rear and above the front line, in such a position that
they could drop curtain fire freely over the Fifth. I, being the Grand
Staff, took up a position on the right wing on a small elevation above
the army, from which I could see the battle in every particular; and
Thwaites, of the Sixth, who was too small and weak to be of any use in
the fighting lines, was my adjutant to run messages and take any
necessary orders to the wings.

As for the enemy, they made no entrenchments or anything of the kind,
though they watched our dispositions with a great deal of interest.
Pegram studied the incline on our wing, and evidently had some ideas
about a frontal attack also, which would certainly mean ruin for him if
he tried it, as it would have been impossible to rush the sand-pit from
the front.  They made an enormous amount of ammunition, and as they
piled it within thirty yards of our parapet, they evidently meant to
come to close quarters from the first.  I was pleased to observe this.
They arranged their line rather well, in a crescent converging upon our
wings; but there was no rearguard and no reserve, so it was clear
everybody was going into action at once.  The officers were
distinguished by wearing white footer shirts, which made them far too
conspicuous objects, and it was clear that Pegram was not going to
regard himself as a Grand Staff, but just fight with the rest.  Needless
to say, I was prepared to do the same, and throw myself into the
thickest of it if the battle needed me and things got critical.  But I
felt, somehow, from the first that we were impregnable.

Well, the battle began by Fortescue blowing a referee’s football
whistle, and instantly the strategy of the enemy was made apparent.
They opened a terrific fire, and their one idea evidently was to
annihilate the Sixth.  They ignored the Fifth, but poured their entire
fire upon the Sixth; and a special firing-party of about six or seven
chosen shots, or sharpshooters, poured their entire fire on me, where I
stood alone.  About ten snowballs hit me the moment Fortescue’s whistle
went, and the position at once became untenable and also dangerous. So I
retired to the Sixth, and sent word to the Fifth by Thwaites to very
much increase the rapidity of their fire.  Which they did; and Pegram
appealed that I was out of action, but Fortescue said I was not.

It was exceedingly like the Great War in a way, and the Fourth evidently
felt to the Fifth and Sixth what the Germans felt to the French and
English.  They merely hated the Fifth, but they fairly loathed the
Sixth, and wanted to put them all out of action in the first five
minutes of the battle.  Needless to say, they failed; but we lost
Saunders, who somehow caught it so hot, guarding the slope, that he got
winded and his nose began to bleed at the same moment, which was a
weakness of his, brought on suddenly by a snowball at rather close
range.  So he fell, and the red-cross kids took him out of danger.  This
infuriated us, and, keeping our nerve well, we concentrated our fire on
Mitchell, who had come far too close after the success with Saunders.  A
fair avalanche of snowballs battered him, and he went down; and though
he got up instantly, it was only to fall again. And Fortescue gave him
out, and he was conducted to a ruined cowshed, where the enemy’s
ambulance stood in the rear of their lines.

I had already ordered the Sixth to take open formation and scatter
through the Fifth; and this undoubtedly saved them, for though we lost
my aide-de-camp, Thwaites, who was no fighter and nearly fainted, and
was jolly glad to be numbered with those out of action, for some time
afterwards we lost nobody, and held our own with ease.  Once or twice I
took a hand, but it wasn’t necessary, and when we fairly settled to
work, we made them see they couldn’t live within fifteen yards of us.
They made several rushes, however, but, by a happy strategy, I always
directed our fire on the individual when he came in, and thus got two
out of action, including Rice.  He was a great fighter, and I was
surprised he threw up the sponge so soon; but after a regular battering
and blinding, he said he’d "got it in the neck," and fell and was put
out with one eye bunged.  Travers minor also fell, rather to my regret;
and what struck me was that, considering all their brag, the Fourth were
not such good plucked ones when it came to the business of real war, as
we were.  It made a difference finishing off Rice, for he had fought
well, and his fire was very accurate, as several of us knew to our cost.
I felt now that if we could concentrate on Pegram and Blades, who were
firing magnificently, the battle would be practically over.  But Blades,
owing to his great powers, could do execution and still keep out of
range.  He was, in fact, their seventeen-inch gun, you might say; and
though Williams on our side could throw further, he proved in action
rather feeble and not a born fighter by any means.  As for Pegram, he
always seemed to be behind somebody else, which, knowing his character,
you would have expected.  At last, however, he led a storming party to
the slope, and, leaving the bulk of my forces to guard the front, I led
seven to stem his attack.  For the first time since the beginning of the
battle, it was hand-to-hand; but we had the advantage of position, and
were never in real danger.  I had the great satisfaction of hurling
Pegram over the slope into his own lines, and he fell on his shoulder
and went down and out.  He was led away holding his elbow and also
limping; but his loss did not knock the fight out of the Fourth, though
in the same charge they lost Preston and we nearly lost Bassett. But he
got his second wind and was saved to us, though only for a time, for
Blades, who had a private hate of Bassett, came close and scorned the
fire, and got three hard ones in on Bassett from three yards; and
Fortescue had to say Bassett was done. Blades, however, was also done,
and there was a brief armistice while they were taken away.

We now suddenly concentrated on Mitchell, who was tiring and had got
into range.  I think he was fed up with the battle, for, after a feeble
return, he went down when about ten well-directed snowballs took him
simultaneously on the face and chest, and then he chucked it and went to
the ambulance.  At the same moment one of their chaps, called
Sutherland, did for Norris.  Norris had been getting giddy for some
time, and he also feared that he was frost-bitten, and when Sutherland,
creeping right under him, got him well between the eyes with a hard one,
he was fairly blinded, though very sorry to join our casualties.  I had
a touch of cramp at the same moment, but it passed off.

We’d had about half an hour now, and five of the ammunition kids were
out of action with frozen hands.  Then we got one more of the enemy, in
the shape of Sutherland, and their _moral_ ought to have begun to get
bad; but it did not.  Though all their leaders were now down, they stuck
it well, while we simply held them with ease, and repelled two more
attempts on the slope.  In fact, Williams wanted to go down and make a
sortie, and get a few more out of action; but this I would not permit
for another five minutes, though during those exciting moments we
prepared for the sortie, and knocked out Abbott, who, much to my
surprise, had fought magnificently and covered himself with glory,
though lame.  On their side they got MacAndrew, owing to an accident.
In fact, he slipped over the edge of the sand-pit, and was taken
prisoner before he could get back, and we were sorry to lose him, not so
much for his own sake, as because his capture bucked up the Fourth to
make fresh efforts.

And then came the critical moment of the battle, and a most unexpected
thing happened.

With victory in our grasp, and a decimated opposition, a frightful
surprise occurred, and the most unsporting thing was done by the Fourth
that you could find in the gory annals of war.

It was really all over, bar victory, and we were rearranging ourselves
under a very much weakened fire, when we heard a shout in the woods
behind us, and the shout was evidently a signal.  For the whole of the
Fourth still in action made one simultaneous rush for the slope, and of
course we concentrated to fling them back.  But then, with a wild
shriek, there suddenly burst upon us from the rear the whole of their
casualties!

Mitchell and Rice and Pegram came first, followed by Travers minor and
Preston and Blades and Sutherland and Abbott.  They had rested and
refreshed themselves with two lemons and other commissariat, and then,
taking a circuitous track from behind their ambulance, had got exactly
behind us through the wood.  And now, uttering the yells that the
regular Tommies always utter when charging, they were on us with
frightful impetus, just while we were repelling the frontal attack on
the slope, and before we had time to divide to meet them.  In fact, they
threw the whole weight of a very fine charge on to us and fairly mowed
us down.  There was about a minute of real fighting on the slope, and
blood flowed freely.  We got back into the fort, so to say; but the
advancing Fourth came back, too, and the casualties took us in the rear.
Then, unfortunately for us, I was hurled over the sand-pit, and three
chaps--all defenders--came on top of me, and half the snow-bank we had
built came on top of them.  With the snowbank gone, it was all up.  I
tried fearfully hard to get back, but of course the Fourth had guarded
the slope when they took it, and in about two minutes from the time I
fell out of our ruined fortifications, all was over.  In fact, the
Fourth was now on the top of the sand-pit and the shattered Fifth and
Sixth were down below.  One by one our men were flung, or fell, over,
and then Fortescue advanced from cover with Brown and blew his whistle,
and the battle was done.

We appealed; but Pegram said all was fair in war, and Fortescue upheld
him; and in a moment of rage I told Pegram and Mitchell they had behaved
like dirty Germans, and Mitchell said they might, or they might not, but
war was war, anyway. And he also said that the first thing to do in the
case of a battle is to win it.  And if you win, then what the losers say
about your manners and tactics doesn’t matter a button, because the rest
of civilisation will instantly come over to your side.

And Blades said the Sixth had still a bit to learn about strategy,
apparently, and Pegram--showing what he was to a beaten foe--offered to
give me some tips!

Mind you, I’m not pretending we were not beaten, because we were; and
the victors fought quite as well as we did; but I shall always say that,
with another referee than Fortescue, they might have lost on a foul.  No
doubt they thought it was magnificent, but it certainly wasn’t war--at
least, not what I call war.

We challenged them to a return battle the next Saturday, and Pegram
said, as a rule, you don’t have return battles in warfare, but that he
should be delighted to lick us again, with other strategies, of which he
still had dozens at his disposal.  Only Pegram feared the snow would
unfortunately all be gone by next Saturday; and the wretched chap was
quite right--it had.

Mitchell, by the way, got congestion of his lungs two days after the
battle, showing how sickness always follows warfare sooner or later.
But he recovered without difficulty.




                        THE MYSTERY OF FORTESCUE


My name is Abbott, and I came to Merivale two years ago.  I have got one
leg an inch and three-quarters shorter than the other, but I make
nothing of it.  A nurse dropped me on a fender when I was just born,
owing to a mouse suddenly running across her foot.  It was more a
misfortune than anything, and my mother forgave her freely.  When I was
old enough I also forgave her.  In fact, I only mention it to explain
why I am not going into the Army.  All Abbotts do so, and it will be
almost a record my going into something else.

Many chaps have no fighting spirit, and, as a rule, it is not strong in
schoolmasters; yet when the call came for men, three out of our five
answered it and went.  Two, who were well up in the Terriers, got
commissions, and the other enlisted, so we were only left with Brown,
who can’t see further than a pink-eyed rat and isn’t five foot three in
his socks, though in his high-heeled boots he may be, and Fortescue.

You will say this must have had a pretty bright side for us, and, at
first sight, no doubt it looks hopeful.  In fact, we took a very
cheerful view of it, because you can do what you like with Brown, and
Fortescue only teaches the Fifth and Sixth.

On the day that Hutchings cleared out to join the Army, and we were only
left with Fortescue, Brown, and the Doctor, we were confronted with
serious news.  In fact, after chapel on that day, we heard, much to our
anxiety, that old Dunston himself was going to fill the breach.

Those were his very words.  He talked with a sort of ghastly funniness
and used military terms.

He said--

"Now that our valued and honoured friends, Mr. Hutchings, Mr. Manwaring,
and Mr. Meadows have answered their nation’s call, with a loyalty to
King and Country inevitable in men who know the demands as well as the
privileges of Empire, it behoves us, as we can and how we can, to fill
their places.  This, then, in my contribution to the Great War.  I shall
fight in no foreign trenches, but labour here, sleeplessly if need be,
and undertake willingly, proudly, the arduous task that they have left
behind.  I shall confront no cannon, but I shall face the Lower School.
Henceforth, after that amalgamation of class and class which will be
necessary, you may count upon your head master to answer the trumpet
call and fill the breach.  But I do not disguise from myself that such
labours must prove no sinecure, and I trust the least, as well as the
greatest, to do their part and aid me with good sense and intelligence."

Well, there it was; and we saw in a moment that you can’t escape the
horrors of war, even though you are on an island with the Grand Fleet
between you and the foe.

When it came to the point, the Doctor was fairly friendly, but there was
always something about him that was awful and solemn and very depressing
to the mind.  You could crib easily enough with him, for he had a much
more trustful disposition than Hutchings, or Brown, or Fortescue, and
was also short-sighted at near range; but the general feeling with the
Doctor was a sense of weariness and undoubted relief when it was over.
It was as near like being in church as anything could be.

Beginning at the beginning of subjects bored him.  In fact, he often
found, when he went back to the very start of a lesson, he’d forgotten
it himself, moving for so many years on only the higher walks of
learning; and then, finding that he had forgotten some footling trifle
on the first page of a primer, he became abstracted and lost heart about
it, and seemed more inclined to think than to talk.

Another very curious habit he had was to start on one thing--say
Latin--and then drift off into something else--say geography.  Or he
might begin with algebra and then something would remind him of the
procession of the equinoxes, or the nebula in Orion, and he would soar
from earth and wander among the heavenly bodies until the class was
over.  And if he happened to be very much interested himself, he
wouldn’t let it be over; and then we had to sit on hearing the Doctor
maundering about double stars, or comets perhaps, while everybody else
was in the playground.

I think he got rather sick of the Lower School after about a month of
it, and Fortescue took over a good many of the classes in his normal
style, which was more business-like than the Doctor and more punctual in
its working.  Fortescue was cold and hadn’t much use for us in school or
out, but he was just, and we liked him pretty well until the mystery
began.  Then we gradually got to dislike him, and then despise him, and
then hate him.

He was rather out of the common in a way, being an Honourable and
related to the famous family of Fortescue, which has shone a good deal
in history off and on.  And, of course, when the war broke out, we
naturally expected that the Honourable Howard Fortescue would seize the
opportunity to shine also, which he could not do as an undermaster at
Merivale.  He was a big, fine man, six feet high, with a red complexion
and a Roman nose. Certainly, he did not play games, but he was all right
in other ways, and had been a lawn-tennis player of the first-class in
past times at Oxford, and, in fact, got his half-blue for playing at
that sport against Cambridge.

So it seemed to us pretty low down that he didn’t join Kitchener’s Army.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t even try to.  He was a very sublime sort
of man and not what you might call friendly to us, yet if anybody
appealed to him in any sort of way, he generally thawed a bit and
responded in quite a kind manner.

We argued a good deal about him, and Travers major said it was natural
pride, because, being of the family of Fortescue, he knew there was a
gulf fixed between him and us.  And Travers did not blame him, and more
did I, or Briggs.  But Rice, who is Irish, and who had got sent up on
the report of Fortescue for saying, as he thought, something
disrespectful about the British Army, hated Fortescue with a deadly
hatred.  Which was natural, because Fortescue had misunderstood, and
Rice had really said nothing against the Army, but against Protestants,
which, being a Roman Catholic himself, was merely his point of view and
no business of Fortescue’s.

And when Fortescue wouldn’t become a soldier, Rice left no stone
unturned, as they say, to worry him about it.  At that time Milly
Dunston, the Doctor’s youngest daughter, had just come back from a
school where she had been finished, and Rice’s sister was at the same
school, so she took notice of Rice.  And it soon turned out that Milly
Dunston also hated Fortescue.  I believe he had snubbed her in some way
over English literature, at which Fortescue was said to be a flyer, but
Milly Dunston was not.  She had, in fact, praised a novel to him, and he
had laughed and told her it was quite worthless, and advised her to read
some novels by people she had never heard of.  And then he had slighted
the school where she had finished, and so, when Rice explained that
Fortescue was a coward and preferred the comparative comfort of Merivale
to the manly business of going to Salisbury Plain and living in mud and
becoming useful to the Empire, Milly Dunston quite agreed with Rice, and
said something ought to be done about it.

We helped because we thought the same.  In fact, everybody seemed to be
of one opinion, and little by little Fortescue began to see signs of
great unpopularity growing up against him.

At first he ignored these signs, being evidently unprepared to take what
you might call a delicate sort of hint.  For instance, he smoked a pipe
and kept a Japanese vase on the mantelpiece of his study full of black
crows’ feathers, which he was in the habit of picking up on Merivale
Heath, where he often went for lonely walks.  With these feathers he
cleaned out the stem of his pipe.

Well, Milly Dunston bought a white fowl for the Doctor’s dinner, and
told the man at the shop to send it without plucking the feathers off.
Which he did do, and she got them and gave them to Rice, who dexterously
took away Fortescue’s black feathers and substituted the white ones.
But Fortescue went on just as though he hadn’t noticed it, and when
Saunders was with Fortescue, having his special coaching lesson for a
Civil Service exam., he said that Fortescue took a white feather and
cleaned his pipe with it as though quite indifferent to the colour.

Then Milly Dunston got a ball of knitting wool and four knitting
needles, for all of which she paid herself, and Rice once more did the
necessary strategy and arranged them on Fortescue’s desk, where his eyes
would fall upon them on returning to his study.  But they merely
disappeared, and Fortescue gave no sign.

Then Travers major started a very interesting theory on the subject, and
he said there must be some reason far deeper than mere cowardice behind
the mystery of Fortescue.  He said that it was impossible for a
Fortescue to be a coward in the common or garden sense of funking
danger, but he admitted that he might be a coward in some other way,
such as not liking discipline, or living in a tent, or wearing
uncomfortable clothes, or getting up early to the sound of a bugle.  And
Briggs said that he thought perhaps Fortescue was keeping a widowed
mother and sisters, or an old aunt, or some such person by his exertions
at Merivale, in which case, of course, he couldn’t go.  But Rice didn’t
see why not, even if it was so; and more did I, because the Government
gives full compensation for women relations in general; but Briggs said
I had got it all wrong, and that if Fortescue had an aunt, she wouldn’t
gain a penny by his going to the war, however old and poor she was.  In
fact, he believed that only a wife who was going to have a baby got
anything at all, owing to the great need for keeping up the race.

Then Rice said that it didn’t make any difference to his deadly feeling
against Fortescue, and he also said that he was going on rubbing it into
Fortescue, and leaving no stone unturned to make his life a burden to
him until he enlisted; and Travers major said that Rice was feeling the
instinct of pure revenge, and Rice said he might be, but that was what
he intended to do.  Anyway, he was sure the War Office and Admiralty
didn’t care a button about aunts.

Then we divided into two factions on the subject of Fortescue, and one
faction decided to leave him to his conscience and mind its own
business, which wasn’t driving Fortescue to war; while the other side
took the opposite course, and decided to work at Fortescue with the
utmost ingenuity until in sheer despair he was driven to do his duty.
And Briggs and Travers major and Travers minor and Saunders and Hopwood
abandoned the pursuit, so to say; while I and Rice and a chap called
Mitchell, all ably assisted by Milly Dunston, continued in our great
attempt to wake Fortescue to the call of his country and storm his
lines, as Rice said.

As for Mitchell, he came into it rather curiously, and it shows how an
utter accident will sometimes reveal anybody in their true colours, and
surprise other people, who thought they knew them and yet didn’t.
Mitchell was a mere rabbit in character and nothing in learning.  And,
in fact, he only had one feature besides his nose, and that was his love
for money.  Money, you might say, was his god, and his financial
operations in the matter of loans to the kids were a study in
themselves.  But over Fortescue he came out in a most unexpected manner,
and much to our surprise, made up a bit of poetry about him!  Which
shows nothing happens but the unexpected, and nobody was more astonished
in a sort of way than Mitchell himself, because he never knew he could
do it.

How to use the poem to the best purpose was a question that Milly
solved.  She typed it by night on her own typewriter, and then directed
Rice, at the first opportunity, to put it on Fortescue’s desk when his
study was empty.  And he did so, and this is what Fortescue found
awaiting him when he returned:

    "You ask us lots of questions
      And we answer if we can,
    And now we’ll jolly well ask you one.
      You call yourself a man,
    Then why on earth don’t you enlist
      And try to do your share
    Where the ’Black Marias’ bellow
      And the shrapnel’s in the air?
    And if you will not tell us why,
      Then we’ll tell you instead.
    It’s just because you funk it
      And would hate to be shot dead.
    In other words, in fact in one,
      Most Honourable Howard,
    Though of the race of Fortescue,
      You are a bally coward!"


We didn’t much envy Fortescue his feelings when he read these stirring
lines, and in fact, I, in my hopefulness, believed they would actually
win our object and start Fortescue on the path of duty and rouse him
from his lethargical attitude to the war; but, strange to say, they went
off him like water off a duck’s back.  Not a muscle moved, so to speak,
or if it did nobody saw it do so.  He went on his way for all the world
as if civilisation was not in its death throes.  And then Rice--to show
you what Rice still felt about it--offered Mitchell a week’s
pocket-money if he would write yet another poem of even a more fiery and
stinging character. And Mitchell gladly agreed, and took enormous
trouble and burnt the midnight oil, as the saying is, and produced
certainly a poem full of rhymes and great abuse of Fortescue, yet not
nearly such a fine poem as the first.  And Rice said it wasn’t up to the
mark and wouldn’t pay for it, and Mitchell said it was a contract and
written on commission and must be paid for by law.  But Rice knew no law
and he showed the poem to Travers major, who instantly tore it up and
kicked Mitchell next time he met him and told him he was a dirty little
cad.

So Mitchell cooled off to Rice, and, in fact, his next poem was actually
about Rice--not written to order, but for pure hate of Rice--and it was
undoubtedly a bitter and powerful poem; but Rice, being far stronger
than Mitchell, made him eat it and swallow it in front of his class,
though it was written in red ink.  And Mitchell said if he died, Rice
would be hung.  But he felt no ill effects, though he rather hoped he
would.

At this season, however, a far greater and more splendid poem than any
Mitchell could do had appeared in England.  In fact, it was set to music
and England rang with it--also Ireland.  At least, so Rice said, because
his mother had told him so in a letter.  There was a special mention of
Ireland in it, and Rice’s mother told him that it had made more recruits
in Ireland than Mr. Redmond and Sir Edward Carson put together.

Rice never does anything by halves, and he actually learnt the poem by
heart, and also found out the tune somehow and sang it when possible.
Once, in fact, he woke up in the night singing it from force of habit,
as the saying is, and his prefect, who happened to be Mactaggert, said
there was a time for everything, and threatened to report Rice if he did
it again.

I asked Rice why he had made such a great effort and learnt anything he
wasn’t obliged to learn, and he said, firstly, because it was the
grandest poem he had ever heard, and, secondly, because he had a great
idea some day to sing it to Fortescue, as it applied specially to him by
dwelling on the fearfulness of hanging back when the Empire cried out
for you.

The poem said the Empire was calling to every one of her sons of low and
high degree, and so, of course, it was also calling to Fortescue; and
Rice thought that as it was pretty certain Fortescue wouldn’t read it,
and, no doubt, fought shy of patriotic poetry in general just now, he
meant to wait for some happy opportunity when Fortescue was not in a
position to get out of earshot and sing it to him.

But the opportunity did not come, so Rice adopted the former plan of
leaving the poem in Fortescue’s room.  He had plenty of printed copies
of the words, because the poem, after first appearing in a London
newspaper of great renown, had been copied, at the special wish of the
author, into hundreds and thousands of other papers; and to show you the
tremendous liking people had for it, even the _Merivale Weekly Trumpet_
printed it and Milly Dunston found it there.

She, by the way, had another pretty bitter cut at Fortescue, which cost
more money, and she told Rice she had paid five shillings and sixpence
for her great insult.  In fact, she sent Fortescue a shawl and a cap,
such as is worn by aged women, with red, white, and blue ribbons in it.
Which, of course, meant that Fortescue was an old woman himself.  It was
frightfully deadly if you understood it, and Rice said that only a girl
could have thought of such a cruel thing.

The parcel was sent by post, but once more we were doomed to
disappointment, as they say, for nothing came of it except slight
advantage to the matron in Fortescue’s house.  In fact, he gave her the
five shilling shawl, but the cap we never saw again, and doubtless it
was burnt to a cinder in Fortescue’s fire.

Then Rice tried the patriotic poem, and so as there should be no mistake
he covered the back of it with paste, and in this manner fastened it
very firmly to the looking-glass, just behind the spot where Fortescue
kept his pipes on the mantelpiece.

We didn’t hope much from it, and expected he would merely scrape it off
and take it lying down in his usual cowardly manner.  But imagine our
immense surprise when we found he had sneaked to the Doctor!  And even
that was nothing compared to the extraordinary confession that he had
made to the Doctor.  And it all came out, and, as Mitchell said, a bolt
from the blue fell on him and me and Rice.

After stating the facts of the case, which were that Mr. Fortescue had
been from the beginning of the term subject to a great deal of annoyance
from boys, who laboured under the offensive delusion that he ought to go
to the Front, the Doctor said--

"It is my honoured friend, Mr. Fortescue’s wish that I inform you of the
circumstances which prevent an action which he would have been the first
to take did his physical welfare permit of it.  But unhappily he suffers
from an enlarged aorta and it is impossible for him to take his place in
our line of defences, though that impossibility has caused him the
sorrow of his life.  It happens, however, that Nature has blessed Mr.
Fortescue with abundant gifts while denying him his health, and in the
pages of that work of reference known as ’Who’s Who’--pages that I fear
few among you will ever adorn--may be found the distinguished name of
the Honourable Howard Fortescue in connection with notable achievements.
For Mr. Fortescue is a votary of the Muses.  Already he has two volumes
of verse to his credit and three works of fiction; while in a subsequent
edition of the volume, it will doubtless be recorded that he was the
author of a certain admirable poem which has recently stirred the United
Kingdom to its depths and sent more young men to the enlisting stations
than any other inspiration of the time.  But it was, it seems, left for
one of my pupils to combine idiocy with insolence and affix a copy of
his own immortal composition to Mr. Fortescue’s looking-glass!  This was
positively the last straw, and my esteemed colleague who, up to the
present time has allowed his sense of humour to ignore your insufferable
impertinences, felt that it was bad for yourselves to proceed further
upon so perilous a path.  Very rightly, therefore, he called my
attention to a persecution I should have thought impossible within these
walls.  He has no desire to give me the names of the culprits, and it is
well for them that he has not; but having placed the whole circumstances
in my hands, I cannot permit the outrage to pass without recording my
abhorrence and shame.  I may further remind you that Wednesday next is
our half-term whole holiday, and if before that date no private and
abject apology is committed to the hands of Mr. Fortescue by those who
have disgraced themselves and put this affront upon him--if that is not
done, and if I do not hear from him that he is thoroughly satisfied with
the nature of that expression of regret, then there will be no half-term
whole holiday and righteous and guilty alike will suffer."

Needless to say this tremendous speech made a very great impression on
me and Rice and Mitchell. Milly Dunston did not hear it, but it made a
great impression on her too, when she heard the facts, and we felt, in a
way, that she was a good deal to blame, because she could easily have
looked up "Who’s Who," being free of the Doctor’s library, which we were
not.

Of course, there was no difficulty about the apology, which I wrote with
help from Mitchell; but, showing what girls are, though she had invented
most of the things we did to Fortescue, she calmly refused to sign the
apology and said she should apologise personally to him.  No doubt she
didn’t, and Rice chucked her afterwards.

Rice was the most cut up.  He said he should never feel the same again
after being such a simple beast, and he changed over from hating
Fortescue to thinking him the most wonderful and splendid man in the
world, and far the best poet after Shakespeare.  And to show how
frightfully Rice feels things and the rash way he goes on, I can only
tell you that when we signed the apology, he cut himself on his arm,
just above the wrist, and got two drops of blood and signed with them.
And after his name he wrote the grim words "his blood," so that
Fortescue shouldn’t think it was merely red ink.

The apology went like this:


We, the undersigned members of the Lower Fourth form of Merivale beg to
express our great regret for having tried to make the Honourable Howard
Fortescue go to the Front.  We freely confess we ought not to have done
so and that we were much deluded.  We utterly did not know that he had
got an aorta, and we are very sorry that he has, and we hope that he
will soon recover from it.  And we beg to say that we think his poem the
best poem we have ever read and also better than Virgil.  And we hope
that he will overlook it on this occasion and are willing to do anything
he may decide upon to show the extent of our great regret.

(Signed) RUPERT MITCHELL,
         PATRICK RICE (his blood),
         ARTHUR ABBOTT.


But nothing came of it.  The Honourable Fortescue went on his way quite
unmoved and treated us just as usual, without any sign of forgiveness or
otherwise.  And whether he ever reported our names to Dunston or not, we
never knew.  But I don’t think he did.  At any rate, he must have said
the apology was enough; which it certainly was. And the end justified
the means, as they say, because the whole holiday at half-term passed
off as usual.




                         THE COUNTRYMAN OF KANT


Dr. Dunston had a way of introducing a new chap to the school after
prayers.  The natural instinct of a new chap, of course, is to slide in
quietly and slowly settle down, first in his class and then in the
school; but old Dunston doesn’t allow this.  When a new boy turns up, he
jaws over him, and prophesies about him, and says we shall all like him,
and so on; and if the new chap’s father is anybody, which he sometimes
happens to be, then Dunston lets us know it.  The result is that he
generally puts everybody off a new chap from the first; but the Fifth
and Sixth allow for this.  As Travers major pointed out, it’s a rum
instinct of human nature to hate anything you are ordered to like, and
to scoff at anything you are ordered to admire; so, thanks to Travers,
who is frightfully clever in his way, and, in fact, going to Woolwich
next term, we always allowed for the Doctor’s great hope about a new
boy, and didn’t let it put us off him. As a matter of fact, Dunston
often withdrew the praise afterwards, and we noticed, for some queer
reason, that if a boy had a celebrated father, he always turned out to
be the sort that Dunston hated most; and often and often, when he had to
rag or flog that sort of boy, the Doctor fairly wept to think what the
boy’s celebrated father would say if he could see him now.

When Jacob Wundt came to Merivale, Dunston just went the limit about
him; and it was all the more footling because Wundt grinned, and
evidently highly approved of what was said about him. He was the first
German the Doctor had ever had for a pupil, I believe--anyway, the first
in living memory--so, perhaps, naturally he got a bit above himself
about it; and Wundt got a bit above himself, too.

"In Jacob Wundt we embrace one from the Hamlet among nations," began Dr.
Dunston.  "In Jacob Wundt we welcome the countryman of Kant and
Schiller, the contemporary of Eucken and Harnack!  Moreover, Colonel von
Wundt, his esteemed parent, occupies a position of some importance in
the Fatherland, and has done no small part to perfect the magnificent
army that great nation is known to possess."

Well, we looked at Jacob Wundt, and saw one of the short, fat sort, with
puddingy limbs and yellowish hair close-cropped, and a fighting sort of
head. He looked straight at you, but he never looked at anybody as
though he liked them, and we jolly soon found he didn’t.

As to Dr. Dunston’s German heroes, we only knew one name, and that was
Schiller; but as the Fifth and Sixth happened to be swotting "The
Robbers" for an exam., and as "The Robbers" happens to be a ripping good
thing in its way, we were not disinclined to be friendly to Wundt, as
far as the Fifth and Sixth can be friendly to a new boy low in the
school.

We soon found that Wundt was very un-English in his ideas, also in his
manners and customs.  He could talk English well enough to explain what
he meant, and we soon found that he thought a jolly sight too well of
Germany and a jolly sight too badly of England.  At first we thought he
had been sent to Merivale to make him larger-minded, so that he could go
back and make other Germans more larger-minded, too.  But he said it was
nothing of the kind.  He hadn’t come to England to learn our ways--which
were beastly, in his opinion--but to get perfect in our language, which
might be useful to him when he became a soldier.

He was very peculiar, and did things I never knew a boy do before.  And
the most remarkable thing he did was always to be looking on ahead to
when he was grown up.  Of course, everybody knows they’re going to grow
up, and some chaps are even keen about it in a sort of way, but very few
worry about it like Wundt did.  I said to him once--

"What the dickens are you always wanting time to pass for, so that you
may be grown up?  I can tell you it isn’t all beer and skittles being a
man. At any rate, I’ve often heard my father say he wishes he was young
again."

"He may," answered Wundt.  "You’ve told me your father was an
’International’ and a ’Blue,’ and no doubt he’d like to excel at
football again. But I despise games, and I’ve got very good reasons for
wanting to grow up, which are private."

Of course, he didn’t put it in such good English as that, but that was
the sense of it.

He wasn’t what you call a success generally, for he didn’t like work,
except history; and he hated our history, and there wasn’t much doing at
Merivale in the matter of German history.  But he took to English well,
and would always talk it if he could get anybody to listen, which wasn’t
often. He said it was all rot about English being a difficult language.
He thought it easy and feeble at best.  All his people could speak
it--in fact, everybody in Germany could, when it suited them to do so.

As for games, he had no use for them; but he was sporting in his own
way.  His favourite sport consisted in going out of bounds; and he
showed very decent strategy in doing so, and gave even Norris and Booth
a tip or two.  Norris and Booth had made a fair art of trespassing in
private game preserves, at the Manor House and other such places round
about Merivale.  In fact, game preserves were just common or garden
Sunday walks to them.  But they had been caught by a gamekeeper once and
both flogged; and Wundt showed them how a reverse like that need never
have happened.  He could turn his coat inside out, and do other things
of that sort, which were very deceptive even to the trained gamekeeper
eye; and, finding a scarecrow in a turnip field, he took it, and as it
consisted of trousers and coat and an old billycock hat, Wundt was now
in possession of a complete disguise.  He hid the things in a secret
haunt, that really belonged to Norris and Booth; and they liked him at
first and helped him a good deal; but finally they quarrelled with him,
because he said England was a swine’s hole, and told them that a time
was coming--he hoped not till he grew up--when England would simply be a
Protectorate of Germany, whatever that is.  So they invited him to fight
whichever he liked of them, and when he refused, though just the right
weight, they smacked his head and dared him to go to their secret cave
again.

When they smacked his head, his eyes glittered and he smiled, but
nothing more.  He never would fight with fists, because he said only
apes and Englishmen fought with Nature’s weapons.  But at single-stick
he was exceedingly good, and, in fact, better than anybody in the school
but Forrester. He much wished we could use swords and slash each other’s
faces, as he hoped to do when he became a student in his own country,
and he said it was a mean sight to see old Dunston and Brown and
Manwaring and Hutchings and the other masters all without a scratch.  He
said in Germany every self-respecting man of the reigning classes was
gashed to the bone; and decent people wouldn’t know a man who wasn’t,
because he was sure to be a shopkeeper or some low class thing like
that. As to games, he held them in great contempt.  It seems people of
any class in Germany only play one game and that’s the war
game--_Kriegspiel_, he called it.

I said: "What the deuce is the good of always playing the war game if
you’re not going to war?"

And he said: "_Ach!_"

It was a favourite word of his, and he used it in all sorts of ways with
all sorts of expressions. Forbes, who, like me, had a kind of interest
in Wundt that almost amounted to friendship, asked him if women played
the war game, and he said he didn’t know what they played except the
piano. All women were worms, in his opinion.  Of course, he gassed about
everything German, and said that, from science and art and music to
matchboxes and sausages, his country was first and the rest nowhere.  He
joined our school cadet corps eagerly, and became an officer of some
sort in a month; but he was fearfully pitying about it, and said that
English ways of drilling were enough to make a cat laugh, or words to
that effect.  After he became an officer, he put on fearful side, though
as just one of the rank and file he’d been quite humble; and then, when
he ordered Saunders, who wasn’t an officer, to do something out of drill
hours, and Saunders told him to do it himself, he turned white and
dashed at Saunders, who, of course, licked him on the spot and made his
nose bleed.  He was properly mad about that, and said that if it had
happened in Germany, Saunders would have been shot; but as it happened
in England, of course Saunders wasn’t.  Travers major tried to explain
to Wundt that we weren’t real soldiers, and that, when not with the
cadet corps, he was no better than anybody else, but he couldn’t see
this.  He said that in his country if you were once an officer, you were
always an officer, and that there was a gulf fixed between the men and
their officers; and he called Saunders "cannon fodder" to Batson; and
when Batson told Saunders, Saunders made Wundt carry him on his back up
to the gym., and there licked him again and made his nose bleed once
more, much to his wrath.

On the whole, owing to his ideas, which he wouldn’t keep to himself,
Wundt didn’t have too good a time at Merivale.  He couldn’t understand
us, and said we were slackers and rotters, and that our mercenary army
was no good, and that Germany was the greatest country in the world, and
we’d live to know it--perhaps sooner than we thought.  Travers major
tried hard to explain to him how it was, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t
understand.

Travers said: "It’s like this.  Germany takes herself too seriously and
other countries not seriously enough.  An Englishman is always saying
his own country is going to the dogs, and his Army’s rotten, and his
Navy only a lot of old sardine tins that ought to be scrapped, and all
that sort of thing. That’s his way, and when you bally Germans hear us
talk like that, you go and believe it, and don’t understand it’s our
national character to run ourselves down.  And you chaps always go to
the other extreme and brag about your army, and your guns, and your
discipline, and your genius, and all the rest of it; and, of course, we
don’t believe you in the least, because gas like that carries its own
reward, and nobody in the world could be so much better than all the
rest of the world as you think you are. And if you imagine, because we
run ourselves down, we would let anybody else dare to run us down,
you’re wrong.  And if you think our free army is frightened of your
slave army, and would mind taking you on, ten to one, on land or sea,
you’re also wrong."

It was a prophecy in a way, though Travers little knew it, for the war
broke out next holidays, and when we went back to school, it was in full
swing.  And so, naturally, was Wundt.  He wasn’t going home for the vac.
in any case, but stopping at Merivale, and he had done so.  He told me
the Doctor had talked some piffle to him about the duties of
non-combatants; but, as Wundt truly said, every German in the world is a
combatant in time of war, and if you can’t do one thing, you must try
and do another.  In fact, old Dunston little knew the German character,
and when he found it out, he was a good bit astonished, not to say hurt.

He, however, discovered it jolly quickly, and I did first of all,
because, owing to being rather interested in human nature, I encouraged
Wundt in a sort of way, and let him talk to me, and tried to see things
from his point of view, as far as I could--that is, without doing
anything unsporting to England.  The great point was to keep your temper
with Wundt; and, of course, most chaps couldn’t, because he was so
beastly sure he was right--at least, his nation was.  But I didn’t mind
all that humbug, and found, by being patient with him, that, under all
this flare-up, he was what you might call deadly keen on his blessed
Fatherland.  He fairly panted with patriotism, and in these moments,
quite ignored my feelings.

"Now you know why I wanted to grow up," he said to me.  "I hoped this
wouldn’t have happened till I could be in it.  But it will be all over
and your country a thing of the past before I’m sixteen--worse luck!"

As he was going to be sixteen in October, that was a bit hopeful of
Wundt.  His father or somebody had stuffed him up that Germany was being
sat on by the world, and couldn’t stand it much longer; and after the
war began, he honestly believed that it was the end of England, and, in
a way, he was more decent than ever he’d been before. When we came back
at the end of the holidays, Wundt welcomed me in a very queer sort of
manner.  Somebody had treated me just the same in the past, and, after
trying for a week to think who it was, I remembered it was my Uncle
Samuel, after I’d lost my mother.  Wundt evidently felt sorry for all of
us in general and for me in particular as his special friend.

"Of course," he said, "I can’t pretend I didn’t want it to happen; but
you won’t see it is for the good of the world that your country’s got to
go down.  And so I’m sorry for you, if anything."

"Do you really think it has got to go down?" I asked Wundt, and he said
it wasn’t so much what he thought as what was bound to take place.

"Either England’s got to go, or else Germany," he said, "and as the
Teuton is the world-power for religion and culture and everything that
really matters, and also miles strongest, England’s naturally got to go.
You’ve had your turn; now it’s ours. The Kaiser speaks, Germany listens
and obeys."

Booth asked him what day the Germans would be at Merivale, and if he’d
got a plan of campaign marked out; and he said about the half-term
holiday, or earlier, they would come.  And Booth said that would mean a
short term, anyway, which had its bright side.

Then Tracey, who is awful sarcastic, though it doesn’t generally come
off, asked Wundt how he had arrived at this idea, and Wundt said from
reading papers that his father had sent him via Holland.

"Your papers are chockful of lies," he said.  "If you want the truth,
those of you who can read German can see it in my papers."

Of course, some of the Sixth could read German, and they borrowed his
papers, and were much surprised that Wundt really believed such absolute
rot against the evidence of our papers.  But he was simply blind, and
went so far as to say that he’d sooner believe the pettiest little
German rag than all our swaggerest papers, let alone the _Merivale
Weekly Trumpet_, which was fearfully warlike, because the editor had a
son who was training for the Front.

But most of all, Wundt hated _Punch_, and, finding this out, we used to
slip the cartoons into his desk, and put them under his pillow, and
arrange them elsewhere where he must find them.  These made him fairly
foam at the mouth, and he said he hoped the first thing the Germans
would do, when they got to London, would be to go to _Punch_ and put the
men who drew the pictures and made the jokes to the sword.

No doubt it was because they were so jolly true.

The masters were very decent to Wundt, especially Fortescue, who saw how
trying it must be for him, living in an enemy’s country; and when Wundt
told me in secret that he felt his position was becoming unbearable, and
that he had written and asked if he could be exchanged for a prisoner,
or something.  He said in a gloomy sort of voice: "I may tell you I
haven’t wasted my time here, and perhaps some day Doctor Dunston and you
chaps will know it to your cost."

Well, though friendly enough to Wundt, I didn’t much like that, and told
my own special chum, Manwaring, what he’d said; and Manwaring told me
that in his opinion Wundt ought to be neutralised immediately.  But I
knew enough of Wundt to feel certain he could never be properly
neutralised, because he had told me that once a German always a German,
and that he’d rather be a dead German than a living King of England, and
that if he had to stop in England for a million years, he’d still be as
German as ever, if not more so.  And he’d also fairly shaken with pride
because he’d read somewhere that the Kaiser had said that he would give
any doctor a hundred thousand marks if he would draw every drop of
English blood out of his veins.  And when he said it, Tracey had
answered that if the Kaiser came over to England, there were plenty of
doctors who would oblige him for half the money.

But now I thought, without any unkind feeling to Wundt, that I ought to
tell Travers major, as head of the school, of his dark threats; and I
did; and Travers thanked me and said I was quite right to tell him,
because war is war, and you never know.

Of course, if Wundt was going to turn out to be a spy, it wasn’t
possible for me to be his friend, and I told him so.  And he saw that.
He said he was sorry, if anything, to lose my friendship, but he should
always do all that he considered right in the service of his country,
and he couldn’t let me stand between him and his duty.  Which amounted
to admitting that he was a spy, or, at any rate, was trying to be one;
for, of course, at Merivale a spy was no more use than he would have
been at the North Pole.  There was simply nothing to spy about, except
the photographs of new girls on Brown’s mantelpiece.

Then Travers made a move, and he was sorry to do it; but he was going to
be a soldier, just as much as Wundt was, and though he never jawed about
Woolwich like Wundt did about Potsdam, yet he was quite as military at
heart; and though he didn’t wear the English colours inside his
waistcoat lining, like Wundt wore the German colours, as he admitted to
me in a friendly moment, yet Travers felt just as keen about England as
Wundt did about Germany, and quite as cast down when we heard about Mons
as Wundt was when he heard about the retreat on the Marne.  He
pretended, of course, it was only strategy, but he knew jolly well it
wasn’t.

Then Travers major reluctantly decided that, with a spy, certain things
must be done.  He didn’t like doing them, but they had to be done.  And
the first thing was to prove it.

"You can only prove a chap is a spy by spying yourself," Travers said,
and well knowing the peculiar skill of Norris and Booth, he told them to
keep a careful lookout on Wundt and report anything suspicious; which
they did do, because it was work to which they were well suited by their
natures, and they soon reported that Wundt went long walks out of
bounds, and evidently avoided people as much as possible.  Once they
surprised him making notes, and when he saw Booth coming, he tore them
up.

Then Travers major did a strong thing, and ordered that the box of Wundt
should be searched. I happened to know that Wundt was very keen to get a
letter off by post, which he said was important, yet hesitated to send
for fear of accidents; and that decided Travers.

So it was done, quite openly and without subterfuge, as they say,
because we just took the key from Wundt by force and told him we were
going to do it, and then did it.  He protested very violently, but the
protest, as Travers said, was not sustained.

And we found his box contained fearfully incriminating matter, for he
had a one-barrelled breech-loading pistol in it, with a box of
ammunition, of which we had never heard until that moment, and a
complete map on a huge scale of Merivale and the country round.  It was
a wonderful map, and how he had made it, and nobody ever seen it, was
extraordinary.  At least, so it seemed, till we remembered that he had
been here through the holidays on his own.  There were numbers in red
ink all over the map, and remarks carefully written in German; and
though it is impossible to give you any idea of the map, which was
beautifully drawn and about three yards square, if not more, yet I can
reproduce the military remarks upon it, which Travers translated into
English.

They went like this, and showed in rather a painful way what Wundt
really was at heart.  And it showed what Germany was, too; and no doubt
thousands of other Germans all over the United Kingdom had been doing
the same thing, and still are.

After the first shock of being discovered, I honestly believe he was
pleased to be seen in his true colours, and gloried in his crime.

These were the notes in cold blood, as you may say:--


1.  _A wood.  Good cover for guns.  In the middle is a spring where a
gamekeeper’s wife gets water. It might easily be poisoned._

2.  _A large number of fields.  Some have potatoes in them and some have
turnips._

3.  _A village with fifty or sixty houses and about two hundred and
thirty-five inhabitants, mostly women and children.  Presents no
difficulties._

4.  _A church with a tower.  A very good place for wireless or light
gun.  The pews inside would be good for wounded.  Cover for infantry in
the churchyard._

5.  _A stream with one bridge, which might easily be blown up; but it
would not be necessary, as the stream is only six feet across, and you
could easily walk over it.  Too small for pontoons.  Small fish in it._

6.  _A large field which was planted with corn, but is now empty.  A
good place for aeroplanes to land.  Can’t find out where corn is gone._

7.  _A railroad with one line that goes up to main line.  Could easily
be destroyed, but might have strategic value._

8.  _A hill where guns could be placed that would cover advance of
troops on Merivale._

9.  _The school.  This stands on rising ground a mile from the hill, No.
8, and could easily be destroyed by field-guns.  Or it could easily be
used as a hospital.  It contains a hundred beds, and the chapel could
easily hold a hundred more.  There is a garden and a fountain of good
water.  Also a well in the house.  The playing-field is a quarter of a
mile off.  Tents could easily be put up there for troops._

10.  _A village schoolroom three hundred yards from the church.  It has
been turned into a hospital for casualties.  There are thirteen or
fourteen nurses of the Red Cross waiting for wounded soldiers to arrive.
They are amateurs, but have passed some sort of examination.  The
wounded are said to be coming.  This place could easily be shelled from
the hill marked No. 8._

11.  _A forest full of game, and in the middle of it a park and the
Manor House, belonging to a man called Sir Neville Carew.  He has great
wealth, and the mansion could easily be looted, and then either used for
officers or burned down._

12.  _A farm rich in sheep and cattle and chickens, also turkeys.  It
would present no difficulties._

13.  _The sea.  This is distant ten miles from here, and there is an
unfortified bay, which looks deep. We went there for a holiday last
summer, and some of us went out in a boat.  I pretended to fish and
tried to take soundings, but regret to report that I failed.  However,
the water was quite deep enough for small battle-craft.  The cliffs are
red and made of hard rock.  There are about twenty fishing-boats, and a
coastguard station on top; but I saw no wireless.  There is a
semaphore._

14.  _A medical doctor’s house with a garage. Would present no
difficulties.  I saw petrol tins in the yard._


That was all, and Travers at once decided to hand the map and the pistol
and cartridges to Doctor Dunston.

"I’m very unwilling to do it," he said, "but this is a bit too thick
altogether.  It is pure, unadulterated spying of the most blackguard
sort.  And if I had anything to do with it, I should fine Wundt every
penny he’s got and imprison him for six months and then deport him."

So he took the evidence of guilt to Dunston, and, of course, Dunston had
the day of his life over them.  Some of the masters considered it funny,
and I believe Peacock, who translated the map for Dunston, thought it
was rather fine of Wundt; but old Dunston didn’t think it was funny, or
fine, either.  He had the whole school in chapel, and hung up the map on
a blackboard, and waved the pistol first in one hand and then the other,
and talked as only he can talk when he’s fairly roused by a great
occasion.

I believe what hurt him most was Wundt saying it would be so jolly easy
to knock out Merivale; and to hear Wundt explaining how the school could
be shelled fairly made old Dunston get on his hind legs.  In his great
moments he always quotes Shakespeare, and he did now.  He said he wasn’t
going to have a serpent sting him twice, anyway. He also said it was
enough to make Kant and Goethe turn in their graves; and, that for all
he could see, they had expended their genius in vain, so far as their
native land was concerned.  And then he went on.

"Needless to say, Jacob Wundt, you are technically expelled.  I say
’technically,’ because, until I have communicated with your unfortunate
father, it is impossible literally to expel you.  To be expelled, a boy
must be expelled from somewhere to somewhere, and for the moment there
is nowhere that I know of to where you can be expelled.  But rest
assured that a way shall be found at the earliest opportunity.  Indeed,
it may be my duty to hand you over to the military authorities, and,
should that be the case, I shall not hesitate.  For the present you are
interned."

Wundt merely said "_Ach!_" but he said it in such a fearfully
contemptuous tone of voice that the Doctor flogged him then and there;
and Travers major thought Wundt ought not to have been flogged by
rights, but treated as a prisoner of war, or else shot--he didn’t seem
to be sure which.

And as for Wundt, he evidently thought the Belgian atrocities were a
fool to his being flogged; and he got so properly wicked that the Doctor
had him locked up all night, with nothing but bread and water to eat,
and the gardener to guard him.

Then a good many chaps began to be sorry for Wundt; but their sorrow was
wasted, for the very next day Dunston heard from his father that Wundt
could go home through Holland, with two other German boys who were being
looked after by the American Ambassador, or some such pot in London.  So
he went, and after he had gone, Fortescue asked the Doctor if he might
have Wundt’s map, as a psychological curiosity, or some such thing, and
Dunston said he had burned the map to cinders, and seemed a good deal
pained with Fortescue for wanting to treasure such an outrage.

Wundt promised to write to me when he left; but he never did, and,
perhaps, if it’s true that German boys of sixteen go to the Front, he
may be there now.  And if he is, and if his side wins, and if Wundt is
with the Germans when they come to Merivale, I know the first thing
he’ll do will be to slay old Dunston, and the second thing he’ll do will
be to slay Saunders.

But in the meantime, of course, there is a pretty rosy chance he may get
slain himself.  Not that he’d mind, if he knew his side was on top and
going to conquer.  Only, perish the thought, as they say.




                          TRAVERS MINOR, SCOUT


Before the fearful war with Germany began, Dr. Dunston was not very keen
about us joining the Boy Scouts on half-holidays.  He liked better for
us to play games; and if you didn’t play games, he liked you to go out
with Brown to botanize in the hedges.  It was a choice of evils to me
and Travers minor, because we hated games and we fairly loathed
botanizing with Brown.  Unluckily for us, he was the Forum master of the
Lower Fourth, and so we had more than enough of him in school, without
seeing him pull weeds to pieces on half-holidays and talk about the
wonders of Nature.  For that matter, he was about the wonderfullest
wonder of Nature himself, if he’d only known it.

But after the War began, old Dunston quite changed his attitude to the
Boy Scouts, and, in some ways, that was the best thing that ever
happened for me and Travers minor, though in other ways it was not.

I’m called Briggs, and Travers minor and I came the same term and
chummed from the first.  We had the same opinions about most things, and
agreed about hating games and preferring a more solitary life; but we
were very different in many respects, for Travers minor was going to be
a clergyman, and I had no ideas of that sort, my father being a stock
broker in the "Brighton A" market. Travers minor was more excitable than
Travers major, though quite as keen about England, and after being
divided for some time between the Navy and the Church, he rather
cleverly combined the two professions, and determined to be the chaplain
of a battleship.  His enthusiasm for England was very remarkable, and
after a time, though I had never been the least enthusiastic about
England before, yet, owing to the pressure of Travers minor, I got to
be.  Nothing like he was, of course.  He used to fairly tremble about
England, and once, when an Irish boy, who didn’t know Home Rule had been
passed, said he’d just as soon blow his nose on the Union Jack as his
handkerchief--which was rot, seeing he never had one--young Travers flew
at him like a tiger from a bow, and knocked him down and hammered the
back of his head on the floor of the chapel.  As soon as he had
recovered from his great surprise, the Irish boy--Rice he was
called--got up and licked Travers minor pretty badly, which he could
easily do, being cock of the Lower School; but, all the same, Rice
respected Travers, for doing what he did, and when he heard that Home
Rule was passed, he said that altered the case, and never cheeked the
English flag again.

Then Dunston changed towards the Boy Scouts, and said such of us as
liked might join them; and about twenty did.  We were allowed to hunt
about in couples on half-holidays; and the rule for a Boy Scout is
always to be on the look-out to justify his existence when scouting, and
to assist people, and help the halt and the lame, and tell people the
way if they want to know it, and buck about generally, and, if possible,
never stop a bit of scouting till he’s done a good action of some kind
to somebody. Of course, we had to do our good actions in bounds, and
Travers minor often pointed out, as a rather curious thing, that over
and over again there were chances to do good actions if we’d gone out of
bounds--sometimes even over a hedge into a field.

But he generally found something useful to do, and I generally didn’t.
The good action that occurred oftenest was to give pennies to tramps,
but Travers did not support this.  He said:

"I dare say you’ve noticed, Briggs, that all these chaps who ask us for
money have got starving families at home.  Well, if it’s true, they
ought to be at home looking after them.  But it isn’t true.  As a rule,
they spend the money on beer.  And when you ask them why they haven’t
enlisted, they all say they’re too short, or too tall, or haven’t got
any back teeth, or something."

We were scouting the day Travers minor pointed this out, and that was
the very afternoon that we met the best tramp of the lot.  I should have
believed him myself and tried to help him; but Travers, strangely
enough, is much kinder to animals and dumb creatures in general than he
is to men, especially tramps, and it took a very clever tramp to make
him believe him.  But this one did.

He was old and grizzled and grey, and his moustache was yellow with
tobacco.  He was sitting rolling a cigarette in the hedge, and as we
passed together in uniform with our scout poles, he got up and saluted
us with a military salute.

"What a bit of luck!" he said.  "You’re just the chaps I’m on the
look-out for."

Travers stopped and so did I.

"D’you want anything, my good man?" said Travers.

"Yes, I do.  I want a sharp Boy Scout to listen to me.  I’m telling
secrets, mind you; but you’re in the Service just as much as I am, and I
can trust you."

"What Service?" asked Travers minor.  "What Service are you in?"

"The Secret Service," said the tramp.  "I dare say you think I’m only a
badgering old loafer, and not worth the price of the boots on my feet.
Far from it.  I’m Sir Baden-Powell’s brother!  That’s why I was glad to
see you boys come along."

"I don’t believe it," said Travers.

"Quite right not to," answered the old man. "That is, till I explain.
As you know, the country’s fairly crawling with German spies at present,
and it takes a pretty good chap to smell them out. That’s my game.  I’ve
run down thirty-two during the last month, and I’m on the track of a lot
more; but to keep up my character of an old tramp, I dress like this;
and then they don’t suspect me, and I just meet ’em in pubs and stand
’em drinks, and tip ’em a bit of their lingo and pretend I’m German,
too."

I was a good deal impressed by this, and so was Travers minor.

"I’ve been standing drinks to a doubtful customer only this morning, and
spent my last half-crown doing it," went on the great Baden-Powell’s
brother.  "That’s why I stopped you boys.  I’m a good way from my base
for the moment, and I shall be obliged if you can lend me half a
sovereign, or whatever you’ve got on you, till to-morrow.  If you let me
have your address, you shall get it by midday; and I’ll mention your
names to ’B.-P.’ next time we meet."

Travers minor looked at the spy in a spellbound sort of way.

"It’s a wonderful disguise," he said.

"Not one of my best, though," answered the man. "I never look the same
two days running.  Very likely to-morrow I shall be a smart young
officer; and then, again, I may look like a farmer, or a clergyman, or
anything.  It’s part of my work to be a master of the art of disguises."

Travers minor began to whisper to me, and asked me how much money I had.
Then the great spy spoke again.

"I might give you boys a job next Saturday afternoon, but you’ll have to
be pretty smart to do it. I’m taking a German then.  I’ve marked him
down at Little Mudborough--you know, a mile from Merivale--and on
Saturday next, at ’The Wool Pack’ public-house, I meet him and arrest
him.  I shall want a bit of help, I dare say."

Travers fairly trembled with excitement after that.  Then he felt in his
pocket and found he’d only got a shilling, and this he gave to the spy
without a thought; but I happened to have five shillings by an
extraordinary fluke, it being my birthday, and Brown had changed a
postal order from my mother; so I was not nearly so keen about the spy
as Travers minor.  Travers was a good deal relieved to hear I’d got as
much, and even then apologised that we could only produce six bob
between us.

The spy seemed rather disappointed, and I made a feeble effort to keep
my five shillings by saying:

"Couldn’t you get to the police-station?  They’d be sure to have tons of
money there."

But at the mention of a police-station he showed the utmost annoyance,
combined with contempt. He said: "What’s your name?"

And I said: "Briggs."

"Well, Briggs," he said, "let me tell you, if there’s one thing the
Secret Service hates and despises more than another, it’s a
police-station; and if there’s one bigger fool on earth than another,
it’s a policeman.  It would very likely be death to my whole career as a
spy, if I went to a policeman and told him who I was."

"Don’t you ever work with them, Mr. Baden-Powell?" asked Travers; and he
said:

"Never, if I can help it."

So he had the six bob, much to my regret, and told us to be at "The Wool
Pack" public-house at Mudborough on the following Saturday afternoon.
He asked what would be the most convenient time for us to be there, and
we said half-past three, and he said "Good!"

Then Travers asked rather a smart question and said--

"How shall we know you?"

And the spy said:

"I shall be disguised as a farmer, in gaiters and the sort of clothes
farmers go to market in on Saturdays; and I shall be in the bar with
other men. And one of these men will be a very dangerous German secret
agent, who has a ’wireless’ at his house.  And when we’ve got him, we
shall go to his house and destroy the ’wireless.’  And now you’d better
be getting on, or people will think it suspicious.  And you shall have
your money again next Saturday."

So we left him, and the six shillings with him, and I was by no means so
pleased and excited about it as Travers minor.  Still, I was excited in
a way, and hoped the following Saturday would be glorious; and Travers
said it would undoubtedly be the greatest day we had spent up to that
time.

We had gone two hundred yards, and were wondering what the German would
look like, and if he’d make a fight, when we were much startled by a man
who suddenly jumped out of the hedge and stopped us.

It was a policeman in a very excited frame of mind.

"What did that bloke up the road say to you?" he began; and Travers
minor, remembering what contempt the great spy had for policemen, was
rather haughty.

"Our conversation was private," he answered, and the policeman seemed
inclined to laugh.

"I know what your conversation was, very well," he answered.  "Soapy
William wouldn’t tire himself talking to you kids for fun.  Did you give
him any money?"

In this insolent way the policeman dared to talk of Baden-Powell’s
brother!

"His name is not Soapy William," answered Travers, who had turned red
with anger, "and he’s got no use for policemen, anyway."

"No, you take your dying oath he hasn’t," said the policeman.  "If he
told you that, he’s broke the record and told you the truth.  Did you
give him money, or only a fag?’

"We lent him money for a private purpose, and I’ll thank you to let us
pass," said Travers minor.

But the policeman wouldn’t.

"He’s as slippery as an eel," he said, "and I’ve been waiting to cop him
red-’anded for a fortnight. So now you’d better come and overtake him,
for he’s lame and can only crawl along.  And when I talk to him, you’ll
be surprised."

"You’re utterly wrong," Travers minor told the policeman.  "You’re quite
on the wrong scent, and if you interfere with that man, you’ll very
likely ruin your own career in the Force.  He’s much more powerful than
you think."

But the policeman said he’d chance that, and then, in the name of the
law, he made us come and help him.

It was a most curious experience.  When we got there, the spy had
disappeared, and the policeman, knowing that he could only go about one
mile an hour, said he must be hidden somewhere near.

"And if you chaps are any good as scouts, now’s your chance to show it,"
he said.

By this time I began to believe the policeman, for he was a big man and
very positive in his speech; but Travers hated him, and if he’d found
the spy, I believe he would have said nothing.  But I found him, or,
rather, I found his boot.  He had, no doubt, seen us stopped by the
policeman, and then hastened to evade capture.  There was a haystack in
a field, and he had gone to it, and on one side, where it was cut open,
there was a lot of loose hay, and he had concealed himself with the
utmost cunning, all but one boot.  This I observed just peeping out from
a litter of loose hay, and not feeling equal to making the capture
myself, I pretended I had not seen the boot, and went off and told the
policeman, who was hunting some distance off, and also eating
blackberries while he hunted.

He was much pleased and hastened to make the capture; and when he
arrived and he saw the boot, he said: "Hullo, Soapy, old pard!  Got you
this time, my boy!"

Then the hay was cast aside, and the great spy; otherwise known as Soapy
William, rose up.

It was rather a solemn sight in a way, for he took it pretty calmly, and
said he’d been wanting a fortnight’s rest for a long time.

After the capture, the policeman seemed to lose interest in Travers
minor and me.  In fact, he didn’t even thank us, but he gave us back our
money, and it was rather interesting to find that Soapy William, besides
our six shillings, had the additional sum of two and sevenpence
halfpenny also.

Travers minor didn’t speak one single word, going back to Merivale,
until we were at the gates; then he said a thing which showed how
fearfully he felt what had happened.

He said:

"It makes me feel almost in despair about going into the Church, Briggs,
when there’s such wickedness as that about."

And I said:

"I should think you would want to go in all the more."

And afterwards, when we had changed and had tea, and we were in school,
he got calmer and admitted I was right.

But he took a gloomier view of human nature afterwards, and often, on
scouting days, he said there was more satisfaction in helping a beetle
across a road, or making a snail safe, than there was in trying to be
useful to one’s fellow-creatures.

We had to go and give evidence against Soapy William before a Justice of
the Peace two days later.  In fact, it was Sir Neville Carew, who lived
at the Manor House, and he seemed to be very much amused at our
evidence, and almost inclined to let Soapy off.  But he gave him a
fortnight, and Soapy said to us as he ’oped we’d let the great
Baden-Powell know how he was being treated; and everybody laughed,
including Brown, who had gone to the court with us.

But, after that, Dr. Dunston cooled off to the Boy Scouts a lot; and
when the terrific adventure to Travers minor finally occurred, about
three weeks after, Travers major said it was a Nemesis on old Dunston;
and so undoubtedly it was.

Though not actually in it, I heard all the particulars--in fact,
everybody did, for naturally Dr. Dunston was the most famous person in
Merivale, and when this remarkable thing overtook him, The _Merivale
Weekly Trumpet_ had a column about it, and everybody for miles round
called to see him and say how jolly glad they were it wasn’t worse.

It was a fierce afternoon, with the leaves flying and the rain coming
down in a squally sort of way, and Travers minor and I went for a drill,
and after the drill we scouted a bit on rather a lonely road where
nothing was in the habit of happening. But, as Travers truly said, the
essence of scouting is surprise, and because a road is a lonely and
uneventful sort of road, it doesn’t follow something may not happen
unexpectedly upon it.

He said:

"No doubt the roads in the valley of the river Aisne, in France, have
been pretty lonely in their time, but think of them last September!"

So we went, and one motor passed us in two miles; and two dogs poaching
together also passed, and in a field was a sheep which had got on its
back and couldn’t get up again, being too fat to do so. We pulled it up.
In another field was a bull, and we tried to attract it, and scouted
down a hedge within fifty yards of it, to see if it was dangerous, and
warn people if it was; and I went to within forty yards of it, being a
good twelve yards from the hedge at the time, but it paid no attention.
Then, just at the end of the road, we came across an old woman sitting
by the roadside in a very ragged and forlorn condition, with a basket of
watercresses and also about twelve mushrooms.

Thinking she might be lame, or otherwise in difficulties, Travers minor
went up to her and said:

"Good evening!  D’you want anything?"

And she said:

"Yes, a plucky lot of things, but none of your cheek."

"It wasn’t meant for cheek.  I’m a Scout," said Travers minor.

And she said:

"Oh, run along home and ask mother to let out your knickers, else you’ll
bust ’em!"

Travers turned white with indignation, but such was his great idea of
discipline, that he didn’t tell her she was a drunken old beast, which
she was, but just marched off.  But he was fearfully upset, all the
same, and, instead of pouring out his rage on the horrid old woman, he
poured it out on me. He’d been a bit queer all day, owing to a row with
Brown over a history lesson, in which Travers minor messed up the story
of Charles II; and now, what with one thing and another, he lost his
usual self-control and got very nasty.

He said scouting with another person was no good--not with me, anyway.

And I said:

"What have I done?"

And he said:

"You’re such a fathead--nothing ever happens when you’re about!"

I told him to keep his temper and not make a silly ass of himself.  I
also asked him what he thought was going to happen.  I said:

"We all know you’re always ready for anything--from an Uhlan to a
caterpillar--but it seems to me the essence of scouting is to keep wide
awake when nothing is happening, like the fleet in the North Sea.  Any
fool can do things; the thing is always to be ready to do them, and not
get your shirt out and lose your nerve because there’s nothing to do."

This good advice fairly settled Travers minor. He undoubtedly lost his
temper, as he admitted afterwards, and he said:

"When I want you to tell me my business, Briggs, I’ll let you know."

And I said:

"Your first business is to keep your hair on, whatever happens."

And he said:

"Then I’ll relieve you of my company, Briggs."

And, before I could answer, he had got through the hedge and gone off
over a field which ran along a wood.  I watched him in silent amazement,
as they say, and he crossed the field and entered the wood and
disappeared.

This action alone showed what a proper rage he was in, because he had
gone into the Manor Woods, which was not only going out of bounds, but
also trespassing--two things he never did.  It was a fearful loss of
nerve, and I stood quite still for a good minute after he vanished.
Then my first idea was to go and lug him back; but discretion was always
the better part of valour with me, and always will be, owing to my
character; so I left Travers to his fate, and hoped he’d soon cool down
and come back without meeting a keeper.  It was growing dusk, too, and I
went back to Merivale, and decided not to say anything about Travers
minor, except that, while we were engaged in some scouting operations, I
had missed him.

I only heard the amazing tale of his adventure afterwards, and though
everybody had the story in some shape or form, I got the naked truth
from Travers minor himself in his own words.  Next morning, much to our
surprise, it was given out that Dr. Dunston was unwell, and Fortescue
read prayers; and during that event Travers told me all.

"When I left you," he said, "I was in a filthy bate, and for once,
instead of not wanting to trespass and break bounds, I did want to.  And
I went straight into the Manor Woods, and badly frightened some
pheasants that had gone to roost, and was immediately soothed.  They
made a fearful row, and I thought a keeper would be sure to spring up
from somewhere, and rather hoped one would, in order to afford me an
opportunity for an escape.  But nothing happened, and I decided to walk
on till I came to the drive, and then boldly go along out of the
lodge-gate.  Well, I walked through the wood to the drive just before it
got dark.  I was looking out cautiously from the edge of the wood, to
see that all was clear, when I observed a man sitting on the edge of the
drive.  For a moment I thought it was that wretched Soapy William again.
He was humped up and nursing his foot which was evidently badly wounded.
Then the man gave a sound between a sigh and a groan and a snuffle, and
I saw it was Dr. Dunston!

"Of course, it was the moment of my life, and I felt, in a sort of way,
that my whole future career depended upon my next action.  My first
instinct, remembering that Norris and Booth were both flogged when
caught here, was a strategic retreat; but then my duty as a Boy Scout
occurred to me. It was a fearful choice of evils, you may say; for if I
cleared out, I was disgraced for ever, and my mind couldn’t have stood
it, and if I went forward, I was also disgraced for ever, because to be
flogged, to a chap with my opinions, is about the limit.  I considered
what should be done, and while I was considering, old Dunston groaned
again and said out loud:

"’Tut--tut!  This is indeed a tragedy!’

"That decided me, because the question of humanity came in, and looking
on into the future in rather a remarkable way, I saw at once that if I
retreated and heard next morning that old Dr. Dunston was found dead, I
should feel the pangs of remorse for evermore, and they would ruin my
life. I also felt that, if I saved him, he was hardly likely to flog me,
because there would undoubtedly be a great feeling against him if he
did."

"You might have done this," I said.  "You might have retreated, and then
gone down to the lodge and told the woman that there was an injured man,
in great agony, lying half-way up the drive.  You might have given a
false name yourself, and then, when the rescuing party started, you
might have cleared out and so remained anonymous.  It would have gone
down to the credit of the Boy Scouts, and old Dunston would have been
the first to see that the particular Boy Scout in question preferred,
for private reasons, to keep his identification a secret."

Travers was much impressed by this view.

"I never thought of that," he said.  "Probably, if I had, I should have
done it.  Anyway, I’m sorry I swore at you and called you a fathead,
Briggs. You’re not a fathead--far from it."

He then continued his surprising narrative in these words:

"Anyway, I decided to rescue the Doctor, and stepped out of ambush and
said:

"’Good evening, sir.  I’m afraid you’re hurt.’

"He was evidently very glad to see me; but you know his iron discipline.
He kept it up even then.

"’What boy are you?’ he asked, and I told him I was Travers minor from
Merivale.

"’And how comes it you are here?’ he asked again.

"’I was operating in the woods on my way home, sir, and I heard your cry
of distress.’

"’We will investigate your operations on another occasion, then,’ said
the Doctor.  ’For the moment mine are more important.  I have had a bad
fall and am in great pain.  You had better run as quickly as possible to
the Manor House, ask to see Sir Neville Carew, and tell him that I have
met with a very severe accident half-way down his drive. Whether I have
broken my leg, or put out my ankle, it is not for me to determine.  I
have been drinking tea with Sir Neville and learning his views as to the
War.  Be as quick as you can.  You will never have a better opportunity
to display your agility.’

"Then I hooked it and ran the half-mile or so to the Manor House,
sprinting all the way.  I soon gave the terrible news, and in about ten
minutes Sir Neville Carew himself, with his butler and his footman, set
off for the Doctor.  And the footman trundled a chair which ran on
wheels, and which Sir Neville Carew kindly explained to me he uses
himself when he gets an attack of gout, which often happens,
unfortunately.

"He didn’t ask me how I discovered the accident, which was naturally
rather a good thing for me; and when we got back to the Doctor, he told
me to hasten on in advance and break the evil tidings.  So I cleared
out.  And I’ve heard no more yet; but no doubt I shall soon."

That was the great narrative of Travers minor, and after morning school
Brown gave out that the Doctor’s ankle was very badly sprained, but that
things would take their course as usual, and a bulletin be put up on the
notice-board in the evening.

And it was, and it said the Doctor was better.

Travers minor heard nothing until three days later, when the Doctor
appeared on a crutch and read prayers.  Then he had Travers up and
addressed the school.  And Travers saw at a glance that Dr. Dunston was
still in no condition to flog him, even if the will was there.

It ended brilliantly for Travers, really, because the Doctor said he had
been an instrument of Providence, and he evidently felt you ought not to
flog an instrument of Providence, whatever he’s been doing.  He reproved
Travers minor pretty stiffly, all the same, and said that when he
considered what a friend Sir Neville Carew was to the school, and how
much he overlooked, and so on, it was infamous that any boy should even
glance into his pheasant preserves, much less actually go into them.
And Travers minor was finally ordered to spend a half-holiday in
visiting Sir Neville Carew and humbly apologizing to him for his
conduct. Which he did so, and Sir Neville Carew, on hearing from Travers
that he would never do it again on any pretext whatever, was frightfully
sporting and forgave him freely, and talked about the War, and reminded
him about Sir Baden-Powell’s brother, and ended by taking Travers minor
into a glass-house full of luscious peaches and giving him two.

And Travers kept one for me, because, he said, if it hadn’t been for
getting into a wax with me, he would never have trespassed and never
have had the adventure at all.

And I said it wasn’t so much me as that beast of an old woman who told
him his knickers were too tight.

"In strict honesty," I said, "she ought to have this peach."

Then I ate it, and never want to eat a better. In fact, I kept the stone
to plant when I went home.




                       THE HUTCHINGS TESTIMONIAL


Naturally, all Merivale was deeply interested in the adventures of Mr.
Hutchings at the Front of the War.  Of the three masters who had
instantly volunteered, only Hutchings had actually gone to the Front,
being a skilled territorial and holding a commission in the Devons; but
the other two, Manwaring and Meadows, had to be content with Kitchener’s
Army, because they were ignorant of the subject of warfare and had to
begin at the beginning.  Of course, Fortescue would have proudly gone,
as his splendid poems on the war and his general valiant feelings
showed, and we were very sorry we had misunderstood him; but his aorta
being a bit off quite prevented him doing anything except write splendid
poems urging everybody else to go; and no doubt many did go because of
them.  As for Brown, he was five feet nothing, or thereabouts, and so he
wasn’t wanted, and I believe in secret he thanked God for it, though in
public he said it was the bitterest blow of his life.  And Rice, who
doesn’t fear Brown, asked him why he didn’t join a Ghurka regiment; and
Brown said nothing would have given him greater pleasure, only,
unfortunately, owing to caste, and religion, and one thing and another,
it was out of the question.  He appeared to bar the bantam regiment
also, probably not so much as the bantam regiment would have barred him.

So you may say Merivale only had one man at the positive Front, though
Jenny Dunston, the Doctor’s youngest daughter but two, was engaged to a
man in the Welsh Fusiliers, and he was there, and Abbott’s father was
also there.  They were, of course, nothing to us, though no doubt a good
deal to Jenny Dunston and Abbott’s mother; but all our excitement
centred on Hutchings, who was a lieutenant, and was often believed to do
the work of a captain when actually under fire.  He occasionally sent a
postcard to Fortescue, saying that all was well, and I believe Fortescue
also got a letter with pieces censored out of it; but he did not show it
to us, though he told Travers minor and Briggs that it was anxious work.
This was when the British Expedition was falling back, much to its
regret.  But soon the time came when they got going forward again, and
then Fortescue bucked up and, I believe, wrote his best poetry.  In
fact, Fortescue really was a sort of weather-glass of the War, if you
understand me, and chaps in his class said that, after a reverse, you
could do simply anything with him, and he didn’t seem to have the
slightest interest in work, and didn’t care if you were right or wrong.
And in a way it was equally all right for his class after a victory, for
then he was so hopeful and pleased that he never came down on anybody.
So we hadn’t got to read the papers, because, after seeing Fortescue in
the morning, we always knew the general hang of the War. In fact,
Mitchell, who was a cunning student of other people’s characters, though
his own was beastly, said that you had only got to look at Fortescue’s
neck to know how it was going at the Front.  If his head was hanging
over his chest, it was certain the Allies had had a nasty knock; and if
it was just about normal, you knew nothing had happened to matter either
way; and if it was thrown up and straight, and Fortescue’s eyes were
bright behind his glasses, then you knew that we had scored, or else the
French or Russians had. Then a little child could lead Fortescue, as
Mitchell said.

And at last came Hill No. 60, and the fearfully sad news that Hutchings
was dead or wounded; and many of us would have given a week’s
pocket-money to know which.  Then came the good news under the Roll of
Honour that he was only wounded, and after that, many of us would have
given a week’s pocket-money to know where. Presently we heard from Dr.
Dunston that he was in Paris; and then we heard that he was coming to
England and going to the private house of some very sporting rich people
who had turned their mansion into a hospital for wounded officers.

Then Fortescue heard from Hutchings, and most kindly gave us the
information that he had been wounded in two places--the shoulder and the
calf of the right leg.  And we were thankful that it was no worse.

We were allowed to write to Hutchings, and Barrington, who was head boy
now that Travers major had left, composed a letter, and everybody signed
it.  And I hope he liked it.  But then came the great idea of a
presentation to Hutchings.  I am Blades, and it was my idea, though
afterwards Sutherland and Thwaites claimed it.  But I promise you it was
mine, and we had a meeting in chapel one night before prep., at which
Barrington proposed and I seconded the great thought that we should make
a collection of money for a memorial to Hutchings.

Barrington said:

"We are met together for a good object, namely, to collect money for a
valuable memorial of his bravery in the War for Mr. Hutchings, or I
should say Lieutenant Hutchings.  Everybody here--even his own
class--likes him; and the new boys, who do not know him, would equally
like him if they did.  No doubt there will be a very fine medal of Hill
No. 60 struck and presented to our troops who were in that terrific
battle, and no doubt Lieutenant Hutchings will get it; but it often
takes years and years before war medals are struck and presented to the
heroes of a battle, and I have heard that some of the medals from the
Battle of Waterloo are still hanging fire; and many ought to have had
them who died a natural death long before they were sent out.  So I
propose that we make a collection for Mr. Hutchings and present him with
a valuable object before he goes back to the War, because, if we leave
it till afterwards, it may be too late."

And I said:

"I beg to second the excellent speech we have just heard, and if anybody
is of a different opinion, let him say so."

It was carried.

Then Barrington said we must have a committee of management, with a
secretary and treasurer, and it was done.

The committee consisted of me and Barrington and Sutherland and
Thwaites; and Rice, who would not have been on such an important thing
in the ordinary way, was proposed, because he was enormously popular and
would be able to persuade many to subscribe who would not otherwise do
so without great pressure.  That only left the treasurer, and well
knowing Mitchell’s financial skill and mastery of arithmetic in general,
I proposed him.  Some chaps, who owed Mitchell money, were rather shy of
voting for him; but finally they decided it was better to have him for a
friend than an enemy, and so they voted in his favour.  I myself owed
Mitchell three shillings, for which I was paying twopence a week, which
was a fair interest. And personally I always found him honourable,
though firm.

Anyway, he was made treasurer, and he said the subscription lists must
be posted in a public place, because in these cases people liked to see
their names where other people would also see them, and that publicity
was the backbone of philanthropy.

We left it with him, as he thoroughly understood that branch of the
testimonial, and meanwhile from time to time the committee met to
consider what ought to be bought.  And we differed a good deal on the
subject.  I thought, as Hutchings would certainly go back to the War
when he was well, we ought to buy him a complete outfit of comforts,
including blankets, tobacco--of which he was very fond--a Thermos flask,
a wool helmet, day socks, night socks, a mouth-guard to keep out German
stinks, and, in fact, everything to help him through the misery of
warfare, including a filter for drinking water.  And Sutherland was
rather inclined to agree with me, but the others were not.

Thwaites said:

"My dear Blades, you talk as if you were his grandmother.  No doubt he’s
got women relations to look after paltry things like that; but a
testimonial rises to a much higher plane, in my opinion.  It ought to be
something that will last for ever and not wear out and be forgotten."

And Rice said:

"Get the man a revolver."

And Barrington said:

"He’s got one."

And Rice said:

"Of course he has.  And if we get him another, then he’d have two, and
that means six less Germans some day, very likely."

But Barrington didn’t approve.

"We want a testimonial that has nothing to do with actual battle," he
said.  "The War won’t last for ever, and we ought to buy something
useful, and also ornamental, that Hutchings will be able to employ in
everyday life when all is over.  We want something that will catch his
eye a hundred times a day and pleasantly remind him and his family of
his heroic past--and us."

"An heirloom, in fact," said Thwaites.

But I argued that practical comforts at the critical moment would be far
better than an heirloom for future use, because if he didn’t have the
mouth-guard and filter and so on, he might die; and where would the
heirloom come in then?

I said:

"What’s the good of knowing you’ve got a silver ink-pot, or a
tea-kettle, or a cellaret full of whisky at home, when you’re perishing
for a wholesome drink on the field?"

And Barrington said that was petty, and so did Thwaites.  They seemed to
think that the remembrance of our testimonial safe at home would carry
Hutchings safely through all the horrors of the campaign.

It turned out that I had rather touched up Barrington, for he had
actually been thinking about a silver ink-pot, and Thwaites had been
thinking about a cellaret with three bottles of various spirits; but I
told them flatly I didn’t agree with them.  Then they asked Sutherland
his idea, and he said it wasn’t so much what we should like as what
Hutchings would.

He said:

"Perhaps a very fine meerschaum pipe, mounted in silver with an
inscription, would do, because there you have a creature comfort of the
first class and also a testimonial which would not wear out. And a pipe
would be far more to Hutchings, either in war or peace, than an ink-pot,
or, in fact, anything of that sort."

And Rice said:

"Why not get the man a sword?  He could use it in the War, and, if all
went well, he could hang it up in his home afterwards; and if there was
blood on it, then he’d have great additional pleasure every time he
looked at it.  And so would his family."

Barrington rather liked the sword; but he said classy swords were
frightfully expensive, and he doubted whether we should run to it.  Then
the committee broke up, to meet again when we found how the
subscriptions came in.

Unfortunately, this department of the testimonial was very slow.
Mitchell, with great trouble, wrote out a list of the whole school, and
was allowed to put it on the notice-board.  Class by class he wrote
it--one hundred and thirty-two boys he wrote--with money columns and a
line leading from each boy to the money column.  On it, in large
ornamental letters, Nicholson, who was a dab at printing, put the
words--

TESTIMONIAL FUND TO LIEUTENANT
HUTCHINGS, FROM MERIVALE SCHOOL.

Then we all waited breathlessly for the result in the money column.
There was some delay, because everybody, of course, wrote home on the
subject and mentioned it in the next Sunday’s letters; and we pointed
out to the kids that a good and useful thing to write home about, and
something at least to fill two pages, would be the Hutchings
testimonial. Whether they made the appeal or not, of course, none could
tell, but if they did, the response was fearfully feeble.  When
questioned, they said that their people at home had done such a
frightful lot for the War already that further cash for Hutchings was
out of the question; while other parents wrote back, not that they had
done much for the War, but that the War had done much for them in a very
unfavourable manner.  The result was apparently the same in each case,
and the Lower School, all except Peterson in the Third, responded very
badly to the appeal.  He produced ten bob, much to our amazement, and
there was one other ten bob, secured by Abbott through his mother,
because his father was at the Front and still unwounded.  As for the
Sixth, who headed the list, we all gave three bob to a man, except
Barrington, who gave five.  The Fifth came out at about one and tenpence
a head, which was fair, without being particularly dazzling; but the
Fourth fell away a good deal.  And after that there was a hideous array
of blanks.

Mitchell said it was probably owing to the utter failure of the
dividends of the parents of the Lower School; and as we could not
apparently make bricks without straw, we considered how to tackle the
Lower School.  There is no doubt the failure was genuine, for many of
them had even their pocket-money reduced; so Pegram--who had only
subscribed a shilling himself, by the way--proposed that the kids should
be invited to give property instead of cash.

He said:

"If they all yield up something they value, we can collect the goods in
a mass and have a sale, and the proceeds of the sale can go to the
Hutchings Testimonial."

The committee approved of this, excepting Thwaites, who thought nothing
of it; but when asked to give his objections, he merely said:

"Wait and see."

Which we did do, and found that Thwaites was wonderfully right, and had
looked on ahead much farther than us.  The kids agreed willingly to
subscribe in goods, and were only too delighted to do so; but when it
came to the point, the goods of the kids proved utterly worthless in the
open market. It was a revelation, in a sort of a way, to see the things
the kids valued and honestly thought were worth money.  In fact, Preston
said it was pathetic, and Pegram said we had a good foundation for a
rubbish heap, but nothing more.  They brought string and screws and
nails, also the glass marbles from a certain make of ginger-beer bottle,
and knives fearfully out of order, and corkscrews, and padlocks without
keys, and a few threadbare story books, and three copies of _Hymns
Ancient and Modern_, and two old horseshoes, and catapults and bullets
and shot and charms.  They also brought three steel watch-chains and one
leather one; and Percy Minimus offered a watch-chain made from his
mother’s hair, so he said; but nobody bid for it, naturally, for who on
earth wants a watch-chain made out of somebody else’s mother’s hair?
There was also a bottle imp, fourteen indiarubber balls and seven golf
balls--all worn out--two kids’ cricket bats unspliced, three pairs of
tan gloves--new but small--and one pair of wool ones, eight neckties,
not new, and a silk handkerchief, given to Tudor in case he had a cold
in his head, but not required up till now, and therefore new.  Among
other items was half a packet of Sanatogen, also from Tudor, a box of
chocolate cigarettes, several conjuring tricks, mostly out of order, and
three guinea-pigs alive.  Of other live things were included a white
rat, with pink eyes and a hairless, pinkish tail, and a dormouse, which
Mathers said was hibernating, though Mitchell thought was dead.  It
proved alive, on applying warmth, and fetched fivepence.  Lastly, there
was a chrysalis, into which a remarkable caterpillar, found by Hastings
on the twenty-first of last September, had turned; and as nobody knew
the species of moth to be presently produced by it, Hastings thought it
worth money, and put a reserve of two-pence on it.  But the chrysalis
was long overdue, and so it did not reach the reserve; and so Hastings,
who was still hopeful, bought it back for that sum.  As a matter of
fact, it never turned into anything, and was found to be quite hollow
when examined.

There was a good deal of other trash hardly worth mentioning, and many
lots at the sale did not produce any offer at all, let alone
competition; and the owners of these lots thankfully got them back
again, though, of course, sorry that they commanded no market value.
And some kids were much surprised to find their rubbish had no value at
all in the eyes of the larger world, so to speak.

One way and another, the sale realized eight shillings and fourpence,
chiefly owing to the generosity of Rice, who gave the absurd sum of two
shillings for the guinea-pigs, which were not even the chrysanthemum
variety of pig, with wild and tousled hair, but just sleek, ordinary
pigs, and known to be far past their prime.  One, in fact, had a bald
head.

The Hutchings Testimonial now stood at four pounds fourteen shillings
and sevenpence; and thanks to a windfall in the shape of five shillings
from Cornwallis, who had a birthday and got a pound for it, we were now
practically up to a fiver. In fact, I myself flung in the fivepence.
But we were far from satisfied, for, as Mitchell with his mathematical
mind pointed out, five pounds spread over one hundred and thirty-two
boys amounts to the rather contemptible smallness of ninepence and
one-eleventh a boy.  We raised the question of inviting the masters to
come in, from Dr. Dunston downwards, and some fondly thought that
Dunston would very likely give another five pounds to double ours; but
Barrington said he had reason to fear this would not happen, because,
from rumours dropped between Brown and Fortescue, which he had
accidentally overheard while working in Fortescue’s study, he believed
that a good many parents were putting the moratorium in force on the
Doctor; and Fortescue seemed to think that it was quite within human
possibility that the Doctor might put the moratorium in force on him and
Brown, with very grave results to their financial position.  But Brown
said the moratorium was over long ago, and could not be revived against
them.

Then two things of considerable importance happened on the subject of
the Hutchings Testimonial. Firstly, we heard that Hutchings might come
to Merivale for a week or so before returning to his regiment; and,
secondly, Mitchell made a very interesting offer concerning the five
pounds now deposited with him.  He said, very truly, that money breeds
money in skilled hands, and that no financier worthy of the name ever
lets his talent lie hid in a napkin, but far from it.  He said to the
committee:

"It’s like this.  We are now a fortnight from the holidays, and the
holidays will be five weeks long.  Five and two are seven, therefore it
follows that for seven weeks this five pounds is doing nothing whatever.
This would be untrue to the science of political economy and banking.
Therefore I propose that I send the five pounds to my father and ask him
to invest it in his business.  My father, John Septimus Mitchell,
Esquire, is a member of the Stock Exchange of London, and would, no
doubt, very easily turn our five pounds into six, or even seven, in the
course of seven weeks.  This would greatly increase the power of the
committee and the extent of the testimonial for Hutchings. And then, at
the beginning of next term, we shall be able to buy and present the
testimonial in person to Hutchings."

Well, knowing Mitchell, it was rather a delicate question in a way; but
what he said was sound finance, as Barrington admitted, and Barrington
himself felt thoroughly inclined to trust Mitchell. We went into a sort
of private committee, after Mitchell had gone, and though I and Thwaites
voted against, the majority was in favour of agreeing to the suggestion
of Mitchell.  Therefore it was done.

Then Mitchell sent the five pounds to his father, and gave us the
cheering news that his father had received it and agreed to invest it at
interest; and Mitchell handed Barrington a document from his father to
show all was being rightly managed on the Stock Exchange about it.  And
Barrington kept the document carefully, as it was legal, and had a penny
stamp on it.

We next returned to the question of the testimonial itself, and still
could not agree about it, though we were now able to argue on the basis
of seven pounds instead of five.  We had agreed about a sword, but
unfortunately found, on inquiries, that a sword worthy to be called a
presentation sword would cost about fifty pounds, and ought to have
rubies and emeralds in the handle, which was, of course, out of the
question.  Many things were suggested, but none, somehow, met the case,
and we fairly kicked ourselves to think that a committee like us were
such a lot of fatheads.  And, of course, dozens of the chaps asked us
about it, and were rather surprised we couldn’t think of the right
thing.  Proposals were showered in, but all to no purpose, and the end
of the term actually arrived without anything being settled.  It was
then agreed that we should all think hard about the form of the
testimonial during the holidays, and Barrington hoped that events at the
Front might develop and help us to hit on a happy idea.  And we all
hoped so, too.  As for Mitchell, he said that he thought very likely
Hutchings would rather have the money than anything else; but that was,
of course, what Mitchell himself would rather have had, though far below
the mind of a patriotic man like Hutchings. And Thwaites said rather
scornfully to Mitchell that no doubt he would rather have money than an
heirloom to hand down to the future generations; and Mitchell said that
he undoubtedly would, because money was out and away the best possible
sort of heirloom, and everybody knew it at heart, even though they might
pretend different.

Then the holidays took place, and the prizes were decidedly skimpy,
which was a disappointment to those who got them and a comfort to those
who didn’t.  Nothing of any consequence occurred to me during the
holidays, and I had no idea for Hutchings worth mentioning; and when we
all returned, we found the committee as a whole were in the same
position as before.  There were many suggestions made, certainly, but
none that pleased the entire committee.  Then a dreadful thing upset the
situation, and for three days the darkness of returning to school was
made darker still by a sensational rumour.  Mitchell did not turn up on
the appointed afternoon, and it was whispered that he wasn’t coming back
at all!  Presently the whisper grew into a regular roar, so to speak,
and Brown announced the tremendous news that Mitchell had left
altogether, and might be going straight into his father’s business of
being a stockbroker on the Stock Exchange, London.

To add to this, Hutchings was now staying at Merivale with the Doctor
for a few days before going back to the War, and he had already heard
about the testimonial, and was undoubtedly in a great state of
excitement about it.  His wounds had taken an unexpectedly long time to
heal, but he was now quite ready for renewed activity at the Front, and
was, in fact, going back on the following Friday with other healed,
heroic men.

Our position had now become extremely grave, and we held a committee
meeting instantly, and Thwaites and I were in the position of the late
Lord Roberts when he clamoured for an army and couldn’t get one, because
we had strongly advised that Mitchell should not be allowed to send the
money to his father; but the committee had outvoted us.  I was dignified
myself, and did not remind the committee of my views; but Thwaites did,
and there was a good deal of bitterness in the remarks of the committee,
till Barrington reminded us of the legal document which we had preserved
with such care.  He said that he was not in the least alarmed, and felt
sure that, whatever Mitchell might be, the father of Mitchell was a man
of honour, and would not risk his position on the Stock Exchange of
London for a paltry seven pounds.

So we wrote to the address on the legal document, stating the case and
saying politely, but firmly, that we expected the seven pounds by return
of post.  We added that we trusted Mitchell’s father implicitly, and
that as the matter was very urgent, owing to Mr. Hutchings being just
off again to the Front, we hoped that he would be so good as to give it
his personal attention the moment he received our letter.  This we all
signed, to show how many people were interested and that it was a
serious affair.

For three very trying days we heard nothing, and the school was in a
fair uproar, and the committee got itself very much disliked.  Then,
when we had decided to put the matter into the hands of Dr. Dunston,
Mitchell himself wrote to me and sent a cheque signed by his father.
But it was not for seven pounds, I regret to say.  In fact, it was not
even for six.  His wretched father had merely sent us back our five
pounds with sevenpence added! Mitchell explained that we had received
four per cent. for our money, and that he was sorry nothing better could
be done for the moment, owing to the Stock Exchange being very much
upset by the War. And he asked us for a stamped receipt for the money,
which we sent him in very satirical language, and said that no doubt his
father had made the two pounds himself.  And we promised faithfully that
when we grew up and had dealings on the Stock Exchange of London, they
wouldn’t be with Mitchell and his father.  Barrington, by the way,
wouldn’t sign this piece of satire, which was invented by Tracey.  All
the same, we sent it, but Mitchell never answered it, and soon
afterwards he turned up again, having merely been ill and not going to
leave at all.  Hutchings was going on the following Friday and something
had to be done at once.  The committee, which was now fairly sick of the
sight of one another, met again--for the last time, I’m glad to say--and
the question being acute, as Thwaites said, we proposed and seconded
that a master, or two, should be invited to help us with ideas.  Then I
thought of something still better, and suggested that we should simply
and straightforwardly go to Hutchings himself and ask him what he most
wanted in the nature of an heirloom that could be got for five pounds
and sevenpence; and everybody gladly seconded this idea, though, of
course, it was not so impressive as making a presentation with a few
dignified words and the whole school present, as we had meant to do.

However, we went to Hutchings, and he was much pleased, and said it was
ripping of us all, and promised, the morning before he went, to try and
get us a half-holiday as a memory of him.  This was good, but still
better was the great ease with which Hutchings decided what he wanted.
He said:

"I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  On my way through London to Dover I’ll buy
a pair of field-glasses, and I’ll have inscribed somewhere on them--

’To LIEUTENANT T. HUTCHINGS,
    FROM MERIVALE SCHOOL.’"

We agreed gladly to this, and so did everybody, and several chaps, who
had suggested this very thing and been turned down, reminded us
afterwards.

At any rate, Hutchings got them, and wrote to Barrington, from a
direction he couldn’t name, to say he’d got them, inscribed and all, and
that they were splendid glasses, and that we might picture him often
using them on the field, to mark the enemy’s position or sweep the sky
for aeroplanes; which was very agreeable to us to hear, and showed all
our trouble was by no means in vain.  And, in return, we wrote to
Hutchings and told him we were very pleased to know about the glasses,
and were glad to inform him that we had got the half-holiday, and that
though it unfortunately poured without ceasing all the time, it was
quite successful in every other way.




                               THE FIGHT


My name is Rice, and there was only one thing I hated about the War, and
even that I had to stop hating, because of England.  My first feeling
was the War had come too soon, and that if it had only been four years
later, I should have been there. But, saying this to Tracey, he pointed
out that, from England’s point of view, it was lucky the War had come
when it did, because every year was making the Germans stronger, while
we went gaily down the hill reducing our Navy and our Army too. So it
was a jolly good thing the Great War hadn’t waited till I went into the
Army.  In fact, in four years, by all accounts, there mightn’t have been
any army to go into.

"No doubt you’d have been a host in yourself, Rice," said Tracey in his
comical way, meaning a joke, which I easily saw; "but, all the same, as
we had to fight Germany, the sooner we did it the better."

So I gave up hating the sad fact of not being there, though it was extra
rough on me, because many people seemed to think it was going to be the
last war on earth; and if that was so, my occupation was gone, and I
might just as well not have been born, except for the simple and rather
tame pleasure of being alive.  But what’s the good of that, if you’re
not going to do anything worth mentioning from the cradle to the grave,
as the saying is?

As far as mere fighting went, I did all I could at Merivale, and, after
seven regular fights, got to be cock of the Lower School.  And in
ordinary times I should have been cock of the whole school; but,
curiously enough, there was one chap of very unusual fighting ability at
Merivale when I was there, and he was rightly regarded as cock of the
school in the science of fighting.

It happened, also, that he and I were tremendous chums--such chums as
are seldom seen--for we had similar ideas on all subjects and never
differed even on the subject of the boxing art.  In fact we only
differed because I was going into the Navy and Sutherland minor was
going into the Law.  He had no taste for soldiering, like his brother,
Sutherland major; though great genius for boxing, in which he took after
his father, and as his father was in the law and wanted him to go into
it, he resolved to obey.

But to me the law seemed a feeble profession, and I often tried to
dissuade him from it.

Sutherland minor was sixteen and a half and tall; I was fifteen, and
three inches shorter.  He had better biceps than me and a longer reach,
and he said I had a better punch than him, but less science.

After my third fight, he always let me second him in his fights; but he
only had two before this particularly interesting fight I am going to
mention; and one was against Blades, which he won after six rounds by
excellent science and far superior footwork to Blades; and the other was
against a chap called Pengelly, who only came for one term and gave
himself frightful airs because he was a Cornishman.  But I shouldn’t
think Cornwall had much use for him.

One day Sutherland said that the Cornish might be very good at catching
pilchards and digging up tin, but they didn’t seem much good at
enlisting in Kitchener’s Army.  And Pengelly said there was a reason for
that, though he refused to tell us what the reason was.  Then he got
into a fearful bate, and, little knowing the truth about Sutherland,
challenged him to fight; which, of course Sutherland instantly agreed
to.  Pengelly was very big and strong, and if he had been able to hit
Sutherland as often as he wanted to, the fight might have been
interesting, but, having no science whatever, he was useless against
Sutherland.  By sheer strength he stuck to it for eight rounds, during
which time he got a fair doing and Sutherland was hardly marked; but
then, though by no means all in, Pengelly realized that he wasn’t going
to get a knuckle on Sutherland and so he gave up.

He wasn’t a bad chap really, though rather foolish about Cornwall, and
he even said to me deliberately that a Cornishman was as good as an
Irishman, which showed, if anything, that he was weak in his head.  And
after his fight with Sutherland, we asked him again what the reason was
that Cornwall was so slack at enlisting, and he said that the truth was
that half of all Cornish chaps go into the Navy, which, owing to
Cornwall being almost surrounded by sea, they prefer.  But whether
that’s true, or only a piffling excuse, I don’t know.

Anyway, when it came to counting up the most famous men Cornwall ever
produced, he could only mention Sir Humphry Davy, who invented the
safety-lamp for miners, which was undoubtedly all right in its way, and
"Q," who wrote _Dead Man’s Rock_, and was knighted for doing so; and
nobody ever deserved it more.  But that was all, whereas, when it came
to Ireland, of course, I could count up thousands of the greatest heroes
in creation, including Mr. Redmond, who has just got Home Rule for us
after fearful obstacles.

But I never fought Pengelly; there wasn’t time. For he only had one term
at Merivale, and then, I believe, went to Canada suddenly, to an uncle
there.

After that began the curious affair between me and Sutherland.  But as
it was remarkable in every way and will never be forgotten by our
families, I may mention them.

In the first place, Sutherland’s mother was a chronical invalid.  I said
it must be very difficult to love a person who lived in bed and could
never be any use out of doors, or ride to hounds, or anything; and he
said that it made no difference and that he was accustomed to it,
because his mother had always been an utter crock ever since he knew
her, and even at her best, when she was feeling unusually fit, she only
changed her bed for a sofa in his father’s study.  Apparently she was
just as keen about him as my mother was about me, and though she didn’t
much care to hear about his fights, she tried to understand the beauty
of them like his father did.  But naturally this father was more to
Sutherland than the mother could be; because his father had been amateur
middle-weight champion of England in his time, and held the cup for
three years, and had been runner-up twice also. He was, therefore, a
very great boxer and fighter, and Sutherland had been taught by his
father, which accounted for his genius at it and his style, which was
very finished.  He would undoubtedly have been a "pro" if he had been in
another walk of life; but as it was, he fully intended to do as well as
his father had done in the amateur boxing world, though, as he was
growing very rapidly and was also a great eater, it looked as if he
would end by being a heavy-weight, which his father never was; though,
as Sutherland told me, his father had beaten a few good heavy-weights in
his time, though he never touched twelve stone in his boxing days.

Sutherland major, by the way, had just left Merivale when the War broke
out, and he instantly went into the O.T.C.’s and soon became a second
lieutenant and went to France.

This father of Sutherland was a lawyer, and Sutherland regretted to say
that the War had done him harm as, owing to it apparently, people were
not going to law nearly so much as usual.  Still he thought, after the
War, he might find a great improvement.  He was a lawyer of the sort
called a barrister, and wore a wig and gown and pleaded for criminals
before the judges and juries on the Western Circuit, often getting them
off when it looked jolly bad for them--so Sutherland said.

But my father was quite different, being a gentleman at large, and
funnily enough, owing to the War, he made the first money he had ever
made in his life, for he had a great knowledge of horses, and the War
Office, hearing of this, let him go out and choose and buy horses for
it, which he willingly did, and for his trouble he got the enormous sum
of a guinea a day!

My mother sent me a sovereign of my father’s earnings and told me to
keep it and bore a hole in it and put it on my watch-chain, and be proud
of it; but this I did not do, because a sovereign is a sovereign, and I
simply couldn’t see a good sovereign wasting its time, so to speak, on
my watch-chain.

Then one day, walking as usual with Sutherland on the way to a footer
match in which we were both playing, both being in the first "soccer"
team, him at right back and me at right half, we got talking about a
fight I rather hoped to have with Briggs. And Sutherland was trying to
think of a _casus belli_ which, in English, means a reason for the
fight. But, knowing Briggs, he said no _casus belli_ would ever arise;
and I said in that case, if Briggs were willing, we might fight for a
purse, if anybody would subscribe one.

And then Sutherland reminded me that I should become a "pro," and Briggs
also, if that were done.

He said:

"Briggs wouldn’t fight just for the sake of fighting, and as you and he
are very good friends, and there’s no ’needle’ in it, it looks
difficult."

Then we talked, and then he happened to say--about fighting in general
and weights and so on:

"You might just as well think of licking him"--speaking of Hutchings,
who had gone to the Front--"as you might of licking me."

"Of course," I said; "it would be absurd."

That was the whole conversation, and I forgot it while the match was on,
and, in fact, it didn’t come back to me till I went to bed that night;
and then it fairly kept me awake, and I was fearfully sorry I’d said it
would be absurd for me to think of licking Sutherland.  In fact I got
sorrier and sorrier, and then I wondered why the dickens Sutherland
thought it was such a mad idea my licking him; and before I went to
sleep I felt, in a way, rather sick with Sutherland for having such a
poor opinion of me.

In the morning the feeling was still there, and he noticed I was a bit
off and asked me if I was all right, and I said I was.

But it weighed fearfully, and I fairly got to hate myself in about two
days for having said the idea of my licking Sutherland was absurd.  In
fact, the more I thought about it, the less absurd it seemed. I knew he
was heavier and had a longer reach and was older and more scientific;
but he himself had said that I had a fine punch; and if you’ve got that,
you never know what may happen; and many an unlikely thing has come off
in the ring owing to unexpected smacks landing at the right moment in
the right place.

After a good deal of hard thinking and going down about four in my form,
which landed me at the bottom, I felt I must speak to Sutherland, or I
should burst.

So when he asked me, for the thousandth time, what was the matter and if
anybody had scored off me, or anything, I said:

"Look here, Sutherland, you remember that while going to the footer
match last week, you said I might just as well think of licking you as
of licking Hutchings?"

And he said:

"Yes, I remember."

And I said:

"I told you it was absurd, didn’t I?"

"You did--naturally," answered Sutherland.

"Well," I said, "I was wrong--it wasn’t in the least natural for me to
say that, and there’s nothing absurd about it.  It’s been on my mind
ever since. And now I see it wasn’t absurd."

"What wasn’t absurd?" asked Sutherland. "The idea of your licking
Hutchings, or the idea of your licking me?"

"The idea of my licking you," I said firmly.

For a moment Sutherland was quite silent.

"D’you really think so?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.  "After considering it quietly--in bed and in chapel and
at many other times--I can’t see anything absurd about it."

"In fact, Rice, you think you might have a chance against me?" suggested
Sutherland.

"I don’t say that it would be much of a chance," I told him.  "Probably
you’d do me, because you’re a lot cleverer and more scientific; but when
I said ’absurd,’ I went too far."

Sutherland considered.

"You’re quite right," he admitted.  "You might get over a lucky one.
It’s very unlikely, but you might.  Therefore there would be nothing
absurd about our fighting, and I oughtn’t to have suggested there was.
Somehow I never regarded us as in the same street.  But, of course, we
may be."

"We’re not," I said.  "As for boxing on points we’re not.  But fighting
is different and--there you are."

He nodded.

"If you feel like that," he said, "of course----"

"I never did feel like that; in fact I never thought of it before," I
told Sutherland; "but now----"

He didn’t say anything, so I went on:

"It’s a matter of honour in a way," I said.

"From your point of view it is, no doubt," he answered.

"Isn’t it from yours?" I asked him.

"Not exactly," he explained.  "We’re very good friends--in fact more
than just common or garden friends--and I never thought of fighting you,
regarding you as cock of the Lower School and not supposing the question
would ever arise between us, as I shall probably leave Merivale before
you get into the Upper School--if ever you do.  Still, as you feel your
honour makes you want to fight me, you must, of course."

"There’s no _casus belli_ otherwise," I said, and Sutherland answered
that honour was the best _casus belli_ possible.  He said:

"Of course, if you honestly feel that I have wounded your honour, Rice,
we must fight."

And I said:

"You haven’t wounded it exactly.  In fact I don’t know what the dickens
you have done.  But you’ve done something, and though you’re my chum and
I hope you always will be for evermore, yet I don’t believe I shall get
over this feeling, or, in fact, be any more good in the world till we’ve
fought."

"As a matter of fact," said Sutherland, "you’ve wounded your honour
yourself, by thoughtlessly agreeing to my suggestion that you couldn’t
lick me.  Still, whatever has done it, the result is the same, I’m
afraid."

"I’m afraid it is," I said.

I suppose no two chaps ever arranged a thing of this sort in a more
regretful frame of mind, for we had always been peculiarly friendly, and
the idea of ever fighting had never occurred to us; but it was just that
fatal remark of Sutherland, showing his point of view, and showing me,
with only too dreadful clearness, his opinion of me as compared with
him.  And the queerest thing of all was that I quite agreed with him
really, only there was a feeling in me I couldn’t possibly let it go at
that; and, of course, there was also a secret hope that, after all,
Sutherland and I might both be mistaken about his being such a mighty
lot better than I was.

So we agreed to fight on the following Saturday afternoon, as there was
only a second eleven match on our own ground, and we should have leisure
to go into the wood close by, where these affairs were settled.

Needless to say, the world at large was fearfully surprised when it
heard we were going to fight. We still pottered about together in our
usual friendly way, and when we were asked, as of course we were, what
we were fighting for, it was more than I could do to explain, or
Sutherland either. Travers major understood the truth of the situation,
and I think Thwaites did, and possibly Preston; but to have tried to
explain to anybody else the frightfully peculiar situation would have
been impossible, for they hadn’t the minds to understand it.  So we just
said in a general sort of way, we were still chums, but felt such a
tremendous interest in the question of which was the greatest fighter,
that we were going to find out in the most friendly spirit possible.

Of course, being easily the two best in the school, the sensation was
huge, but the general opinion seemed to be that I must be mad to think
of beating Sutherland, and I never argued much about it, and said very
likely I was, but that I hated uncertainty in a thing like that.

Pegram said:

"It will be your Sedan, Rice," meaning that I should be treated by
Sutherland like the French were treated by the Germans on that occasion.

But I did not think so.  I said:

"Most likely I shall be licked and badly licked, which is nothing
against such a man as Sutherland; but it won’t be my Sedan by long
chalks, because we’ve agreed whichever wins it will make no difference."

"Certainly there will be no indemnity," said Pegram, "as you’re both far
too hard up for any such thing; but you needn’t think the beaten one
will ever feel the same again to the winner; because human nature is all
against it."

"Your human nature may be," I said to Pegram, who was a foxy chap, great
at strategy, but otherwise mean.  "Your human nature may be like that,
but mine and Sutherland’s is not."

All the same, I had Pegram to second me, because he is full of cunning,
and I also had Travers minor; and Sutherland had Abbott, who is a very
fine second, and would be a fine boxer, too, but for a short leg on one
side.

Williams was his other second, and Travers major consented to be
referee.

Fighting was not allowed at Merivale, but Travers, though head of the
school, and never known to break any other rule, supported fair
fighting, because he believed it was good; and he also believed that the
Doctor did not really much dislike it, though no doubt to parents he had
to say he did. Brown, however, hated fighting, and as he was master in
charge on the appointed day, we had to exercise precautions and keep the
fight as quiet as possible.

Though favourable to fighting as a rule, Travers never cared much about
my fight with Sutherland and even tried to make us change our minds.
But he had no reasons that we thought good enough, or rather, that I
thought good enough; because of course I was the challenger and
Sutherland had no choice but to agree.

It turned out that Sutherland was rather glad of the fight, because it
distracted his mind from sadness.  A fortnight before, he had been home
from Saturday till Monday, to see his mother, who was worse, because his
brother Tom, or Sutherland major, was in the trenches; and his father
had been very gloomy about it, so the fight served to cheer him up, and
brighten his spirits, which was one good thing it did.

Then the eventful day arrived, and the fortunate chaps who knew that
this was the appointed time, looked at me with awe; and as we were
getting up in our dormitory, Percy Minimus whispered to me:

"You’ll look a very different spectacle to-night from what you do now,
Rice."

The morning seemed long and I jolly near messed up the whole thing and
had a squeak of being kept in for the half-holiday, but I escaped, and
at last the time came when the footer match was in full swing and Brown,
with a lot of kids, watching it.

Then, one by one, about fifteen of us strolled off, including Sutherland
and me and our seconds and Travers major and Preston and Blades and
Saunders and Perkinson and Ash, and Percy Minimus, who liked the sight
of blood, if it wasn’t his own.

No time was lost, and a ring was made with a bit of rope while
Sutherland and I prepared.  They were two minute rounds, and Ash kept
the time.

No two chaps ever shook hands in a more friendly spirit, and as to the
fight itself, as I cannot relate it, I may copy the notes that Blades
took.  He missed a good many delicate things that we did, but the
general description, though not at all in regular sporting language,
gives a fair idea of how it went.  He wrote these words:

_Round_ 1.--Sutherland seemed thoughtful and not so much interested as
Rice.  Rice advanced and dodged about and struck out into the air
several times and danced on his feet; and once he would have hit
Sutherland; but Sutherland ducked his head under the blow, and before
Rice could recover, hit him with both fists on the body.  Rice laughed
and Sutherland smiled.  They were dancing about doing nothing when Ash
called time, and they rested, and their seconds wiped their faces and
Rice blew his nose with his fingers.

_Round_ 2.--Now Sutherland began to hit Rice a good deal oftener than
Rice hit him.  But, in the middle of the round, Rice got in a very fine
blow on Sutherland’s face and knocked him down. Sutherland instantly
rose bleeding, but by no means troubled.  He praised Rice and said it
was a beauty.  And Rice said, "Don’t patronize me, Sutherland," but
Sutherland did not answer.  For the rest of the round Sutherland hit
Rice several times, but didn’t make him bleed.  It was a good round and
both were panting at the end.

_Round_ 3.--Sutherland wouldn’t let Rice get near enough to hit him and
kept catching Rice’s attempts on his arms.  And his arms being longer
than Rice’s, he could land on Rice without being hit back.  He did not
hit so hard as Rice, but he hit Rice, whereas Rice hit the air.  Still
Rice got in a very good one just in the middle of Sutherland’s body,
which doubled up Sutherland, and before he could undouble again, Rice
had hit him very hard on the face with an upper cut.  Sutherland fairly
poured with blood, but was quite cool and showed no signs of not liking
it.  He got in a very good blow with his left on Rice’s neck before Ash
called time.

_Round_ 4.--It was certainly a very fine fight of much higher class than
we had ever seen before at Merivale.  This round was the fiercest up to
now, and Travers major had to caution Rice for being inclined to use his
head.  Still he fought very finely, but it worried him fearfully to be
hit so often without getting one back.  The hits were not heavy hits to
the spectator, but they must have been harder than they looked, because
Rice, who has black hair and a very pale skin by nature, was now getting
a mottled sort of skin.  In this round they were rather slower than
before, and stood and panted a good deal, and while they panted, they
looked at one another with a sort of doleful cheerfulness from time to
time.  But there was also fierce fighting, and Sutherland at last drew
blood from Rice with a blow on the nose.  At the sight of his blood,
Rice gave a great display and kept Sutherland moving about, and at last
hit him backwards out of the ring.  But Sutherland instantly returned
and went on fighting till the end of the round.  It was a splendid round
in every way.

_Round_ 5.---Both were now rather tired, and in this round they took it
easy.

But at taking it easy Sutherland was much better than Rice and did not
waste so much energy in feinting.  He had the best of this round and hit
Rice twice or three times on the face.  At the end he fairly knocked
Rice down, and when Ash said "Time," Pegram and Travers minor rushed to
pick up Rice and carry him to his corner; but he rose and walked.

_Round_ 6.--This looked as though it was going to be the last, for
Sutherland was now fresher than Rice and evidently stronger.  Rice began
the round well, but soon fell away, and Sutherland hit him several
times, and once over the right eyebrow and cut him, and evidently did
that eye no good.  Rice made ferocious dashes and Sutherland got away
from them; and then, while Rice was resting, Sutherland dashed in and
Rice didn’t get away. Sutherland hit Rice on the chest and knocked him
down, and it looked as though he wasn’t going to get up again; but he
did, and still had good strength.  He was being licked, but slowly.  At
the end of the round he got one good one in, though it was lucky.

I must here break off the account of the fight by Blades to describe a
most amazing thing which made this fight far unlike any other that I or
Sutherland had ever fought.  After the sixth round we were being mopped
up and Pegram was advising me to chuck it, and I was saying, in a
gasping sort of way, I should try to stick a few more rounds and hope
for a bit of luck, when, to our great horror, there suddenly appeared
from the trees Brown and a man clad in black.  At first we thought it
was a policeman, and that Brown had heard of the fight and had called a
constable to take us up; but it turned out that Brown hadn’t heard of
the fight, and the man in black was none other than the father of
Sutherland, the famous middle-weight of other days!

He had called to see Sutherland, and had been sent to the playing field;
and there he had been met by Brown.  And Brown, guessing that the big
chaps were in the wood, had brought Sutherland’s father actually to the
ring side!

Brown, of course, was furious and wanted to stop the fight and take down
all our names; but the famous middle-weight would not hear of this. The
moment he found that Sutherland was fighting, a wave of animation went
over him and he begged Brown as a personal favour to let us finish.  He
even promised to put it all right with the Doctor if anything was said,
which showed his fighting qualities were still there.  Brown, of course,
curled up; but his little eyes blazed, and he said that Sutherland’s
father must take the responsibility, which he gladly undertook to do.
Then Brown, giving us a look which told without words what would happen
when Sutherland’s father was gone, went back to the kids.

In the meantime, I and Sutherland had a fine rest, and after that we
went on again.  I wished much that his father had seen the whole fight,
because I knew now, only too well, that Sutherland had got me and that,
of course, with his father there, he’d buck up and do something out of
the common; and I deeply wished my father were there, and not far away
buying horses at a guinea a day in Ireland.  But I hoped now, with this
good rest, to last at least two more rounds.

I may now go on with the description of Blades.

_Round_ 7.--Much refreshed by about six minutes’ rest, Rice and
Sutherland began again, and Sutherland’s father watched the fight with a
calm and sporting interest.  He was a clean-shaved man of large size
about the shoulders; but he had a pale, sad-looking face and very thin
lips, and one ear larger than the other.  Sutherland had to withstand a
wild rush from Rice and hit Rice while he backed away from him, which
pleased his father. But Rice was not stopped, and he got close to
Sutherland and hit him very hard on the body until they fell into each
other’s arms.  And Sutherland’s father said, "Break!  Break!" and then
apologized to Travers major, who was referee. They parted, and Rice,
evidently much refreshed, went after Sutherland and hit him about three
or four times; then Sutherland hit him once.  Then it was time.

_Round_ 8.--Sutherland’s father certainly seemed to have brought
Sutherland bad luck, for in the next round Rice held his own, and though
knocked down at the beginning of the round, got up and went on.  And
Sutherland’s father asked me how many rounds had been fought, and was
very much interested in my notes.  And, owing to him reading them, I
could not describe this round.  At the end both were tired, one not more
than the other.

_Round_ 9.--Rice, feeling he had still a chance, fought as well as ever
in this round, and Sutherland was clearly not taking anything like his
old interest in the fight.  He kept looking mournfully at his father and
didn’t seem to care where Rice hit him, and I could see that his father
was a good deal disappointed.  Rice had much the best of this round, and
Sutherland bled again, though Rice did also.

_Round_ 10.--It began all right, though both could hardly keep up their
arms, and then, without a blow, suddenly Sutherland shook his head and
extended his hand to Rice, and Rice shook it and the battle was over.

That was the end of what Blades wrote, but much remains to be told, and
the fight, which was extraordinary in the beginning, turned out far more
extraordinary at the end.  I couldn’t believe my senses when Sutherland
gave in, and more could his father, and then came out the truth, which
was sad in a way, but really much sadder for me than Sutherland.
Because what I had thought was a right down glorious victory, well worth
the pint of blood I had shed and the tooth I had lost, turned out to be
what you might really call very little better than winning on a foul.

After the fight, Sutherland hastened to his father and asked him about
Sutherland major and heard he was all right and going strong.  Then he
actually began to blub; and his father rotted him and asked him what the
dickens was the matter with him, and how he had given in to a chap sizes
smaller than himself, and then Sutherland, between moments of undoubted
weeping explained.

He said:

"I never saw you in black clothes before, because at home you always
wear tweeds with squares and a red tie; and seeing you in pitch black,
of course I thought Tom was dead.  Till then I was winning, and Rice
knows I was; but after you came and I felt positive Tom was dead----"

Then Sutherland was quite unable to go on, and his father asked him
however he thought he could have stood there grinning at a kid fight
under such sad circumstances.  Then he led Sutherland away and explained
that he happened to have been attending a funeral, near Plymouth, of
some old lawyer friend; and he thought he would kill two birds with one
stone, as they say, and come over and have a look at Sutherland and tell
him they’d heard good news of his brother and that his mother had bucked
up again.

Well, there it was, and much worse for me than Sutherland, because his
grief was turned into joy; but my joy was turned into grief--winning in
that footling way, which didn’t amount to winning at all.  In fact it
was mere dust, and enough to make me weep myself, only that was a thing
I had never been known to do, and never shall in this world, or the
next.

However, Sutherland minor was jolly sporting about it, and thoroughly
understood how it must look from my point of view.  He even offered to
come to Ireland in the Christmas Holidays, if my people would ask him,
and fight me again on my own ground.  He couldn’t say more, but though I
gladly accepted the idea of his coming to Ireland, which was a very
happy thought on his part, I told him frankly that I should not fight
him again at present.

"We may meet some happy day in the Amateur Championships, Sutherland," I
said, "if I get large enough and you don’t get too large."

"No, Rice," he answered; "for I shall be a heavyweight when I’m twenty,
and you at best can never hope to be anything but a welter; but I hope
we’ll second each other many a time and oft."




                      PERCY MINIMUS AND HIS TOMMY


There were three Percys at Merivale, and they were all there together;
and to masters they were, of course, known as Percy major, Percy minor,
and Percy minimus, but we called them "the Three Maniacs."

Though mad, they were nice chaps in a way, and did unexpected things and
always interested everybody because of their surprises.  They were all
very different but very original, owing to their father being a
well-known actor.  And Percy major was already an actor by nature, and
could imitate anything with remarkable exactness, from Dr. Dunston to a
monkey on a barrel organ.  He could even imitate a hen with chickens,
but he was going for much higher flights when he went on the stage, and
knew the parts of Hamlet and Macbeth and Richard III by heart; though he
said to Travers, and I heard him, that it would probably be many a long
day before he got a chance to act these great tragical characters before
a London audience.  His father, on the contrary, was a comedian, and
Blades had once seen him in a pantomime and liked him, and said that he
was good.

Percy minor was not going on the stage, though when he liked he could be
awfully funny.  Only he was generally serious, and meant to be a
painter. His great hope was to take likenesses, and he was always
practising it, and his school books were full of portraits of chaps and
masters.  Some you could recognize.

As for Percy minimus, he was the maddest of the lot, and my special
friend.  We were in the Lower Third; and Forbes minimus was also our
special friend.  But he chucked Merivale, as his parents went to the
Cape of Good Hope and took him, and then Percy and I were left.

Percy never came out much while his brothers were at Merivale, and his
only strong point was singing in the choir.  At music he was an
undoubted dab, and he liked it, and he said that, if his voice turned
into anything worth mentioning after it cracked, he should very likely
be an opera singer of the first water.  And if it failed and fizzled
away to nothing after cracking, as treble voices sometimes do, then he
was going to be a clergyman--if his father would let him.

He certainly sang like the devil, and Mr. Prowse, our music-master, was
fearfully keen on him, and arranged solos in chapel for him.  And people
came from long distances on Sundays to hear him sing, though old Dunston
always thought, when outsiders turned up to the chapel services, it was
to hear him preach.  But far from it.

Well, this Percy minimus was what you may call sentimental, and he
certainly was a bit of a girl in some ways.  I hated that squashy side
of him, and tried to cure it; but I forgave him, because he liked me,
and not many chaps did, owing to my having a stammer.

Percy minimus was frightfully interested in my stammer, and said it
would very likely be cured when I grew up.  He said that people who
stammer when they talk can often sing quite well; so I tried and found
it was so.  But here, again, there was a drawback, because my singing
voice, though quite without any stammer, was right bang off as a voice,
and even funnier than my stammer.

Percy minimus said it was just the sound a fly made before it died, when
it was caught by a spider; so naturally I chucked it.

But this about Percy, not me.  He had very kind instincts, and was of a
gentle disposition.  For instance, when three of the masters went to the
war, and Dr. Dunston said he was going to fill the breach and do extra
work and take our class; while we much regretted it, Percy minimus
thought it was fine of the Doctor.

He said:

"Though it is bad hearing for us, Cornwallis, we are bound to admit it
is sporting of him. Because, at his great age, it must be very tiring to
do a lot of extra work; and no doubt to take the Lower Third must be
fairly deadly for such a learned man as him."

"It will be deadlier for us," I said; and, of course, it was.  But that
shows the queer views that Percy gets--hardly natural, I call it.  And
then, when the Doctor threw up the sponge and got a new master called
Peacock to help and fill the gap till after the War, when Hutchings and
Meadows would come back, if alive, Percy minimus was queer again.

This Peacock was old and dreadfully humble.  I don’t think he’d ever
been a master before, and he was very unlike his name in every way, and
had no idea of keeping order, but went in for getting our affection.  He
tried frantically to be friendly; but he failed, because he was too
wormlike, being a crushed and shabby man with a thin, grey beard. And
when he attempted to fling himself into a game of hockey and be young
and dashing, he hurt himself and had to go in and get brandy.

I believe he was a sort of charity on old Dunston’s part, really, for
Mr. Peacock told Pegram that he had a wife and six children, and his
eldest son was at the War, and his second son was in the General Post
Office, and his eldest daughter was a schoolmistress at Bedford.

Fancy telling Pegram these things!  All Pegram did afterwards was to
make fun of Peacock and treat him with scorn, and many did the same; but
Percy minimus encouraged him, and he liked Percy minimus, and told him
several things about the General Post Office not generally known.

Peacock, finding that me and Percy minimus were rather above the common
herd, told us that he was very anxious about his son at the War, and was
very interested about the War in general, and made us interested in it,
too.  He read us a letter from his son at the Front, and Percy minimus
said it brought home the horrors--especially in the matters of food.

Though not a great eater, Percy liked nice food better than any other
kind, and then, owing to this great feeling for nice food, there
happened the curious, and in fact most extraordinary, adventure of his
life.

He came to me much excited one day with a newspaper.  It was a week old,
but otherwise perfect in every way, and it had started a scheme for
sending the men at the Front a jolly good Christmas gift. For the sum of
five shillings the newspaper promised to send off tobacco and cigarettes
and sweets and chocolate and a new wooden pipe, all in one parcel; and
so, as Percy minimus pointed out, if you could only rake up that amount
and send it to the paper, it meant that one man in the trenches on
Christmas Day would have the great joy of receiving all these luxuries
in one simultaneous parcel from an unknown friend at home.

I said:

"It’s a splendid idea, and I should like nothing better; but, of course,
in our case, it is out of the question.  We’ve both subscribed to the
Hutchings’ testimonial, and there’s not a penny in sight for me this
side of Christmas, and no more there is for you."

He admitted this, but said, because there wasn’t a penny in sight, it
didn’t follow we might not, by some unheard-of deeds, rake up the money
in time. And I said, well knowing what five shillings meant, that the
deeds would certainly have to be unheard-of.  I said:

"There’s a fortnight before you have to send in the money, but, so far
as I am concerned, it might just as well be ten years."

And he said:

"The problem simply is: How to raise five shillings out of nothing in
fourteen days."

And I said:

"Yes."

And he said:

"It sounds simple enough."

And I said:

"The hardest problems often do."

In two days he had got a shilling, by selling a thing he greatly valued.
It was a tie his mother had given him, and it was made of sheeny silk,
and changed colour according to which way you looked at it.  His mother
had given half a crown for it, and Percy wore it on Sundays only.

It was Sutherland who gave the money; and that still left four
shillings, and Percy minimus hadn’t got another thing in the world worth
twopence. He then tried writing home, and failed.  He said his father
was out of work, and, though a very generous and kind father as a rule,
not just now.  His mother also failed him.  She wrote sorrowfully, but
said that she and his father had done everything about the War they
could for the present.  He then wrote to his godmother, and got a
shilling. Encouraged by this, he wrote to his godfather, who didn’t
answer the letter.

Fourpence had gone on stamps for these four letters, and he was
accordingly left with one and eightpence.  Subtracting this from five
shillings, you will find he still had to raise three shillings and
fourpence.

It looked hopeless, and I pointed out there was the additional danger
that he might be accused of getting money under false pretences if he
didn’t collect the lot; but he did not fear that, because, as he said,
whatever he might get, he could send to some other charity which was
open to take less than five shillings.

There were now seven days left, and he began to get very fidgetty and
wretched.  He said he was always seeing in his mind’s eye a Tommy in the
trenches waiting and watching and hoping, between his fights, that Percy
minimus would send him one of those grand simultaneous packets.  It got
on his nerves after a bit, and twice he woke me in the dead of the night
in our dormitory sniffing very loud.

I said:

"You’re making a toil of a pleasure, Percy."

And he said:

"No, I’m not.  Whenever I go to sleep, I dream of my Tommy in the
trenches; and the parcels are being given out by Lord French, and my
Tommy stretches up his hand eagerly and hopefully; but there’s no parcel
for him.  And he shrugs his shoulders and just bears it, and goes back
to his gun; but it’s simply hell for me."

"What’s he like?" I asked, to get Percy minimus off the sad side of it.

"Huge and filthy," said Percy minimus.  "He has a brown face and a big,
black moustache and one of the new steel hats; and he’s plastered with
mud, and his eyes roll with craving for cigarettes and chocolates."

"You needn’t worry," I said.  "He’ll get his parcel all right.  Of
course, they won’t miss him."

"What a fool you are, Cornwallis!" he answered, still sniffing.  "Can’t
you see that, if I don’t send a parcel, there will be one parcel less;
and so one man will go without who would otherwise have had a parcel;
and that man will be this one I see in my dreadful dreams."

"If you put it like that," I said--"of course."

Then he had another beastly thought.

"I’ve got an idea the man is Peacock’s son," he said.  "And I feel a
regular traitor to Peacock now every time I look at him."

"Then why don’t you ask him for some money?" I naturally answered.

"I feel he hasn’t got any," replied Percy.  "But I can try."

"Besides," I said, "his son may be an officer, and, of course, they
would be far above parcels."

"I hope he is," said Percy; "but I don’t think he is.  And nobody would
be above a parcel at a time like that."

Anyway he asked Peacock, and Peacock gave him sixpence, and wished he
could do better.  This made two and twopence; and the same day Percy
found a threepenny piece in the playground; and though, at another time,
he would have mentioned this, with a view of returning it to the proper
owner, now he didn’t, but said it was a Providence, and added it to the
rest.

And this gave him another hopeful idea, and he mentioned the parcel for
his Tommy in his prayers, morning and evening, and asked me to do so
too. I was fed up with the whole thing by now, because Percy was getting
fairly tormented by it, and even said he saw the Tommy looking at him in
broad daylight sometimes--over the playground wall, or through the
window in the middle of a class.  Still I obliged him, and prayed four
times for him to get his two and sevenpence; but there was no reply
whatever; and in this way two days were wasted.

Then he had a desperate but brilliant idea, and told me.  He said:

"After school on Friday, in the half-hour before tea, I’m going to break
bounds and go down into Merivale and stand by the pavement and sing the
solo from the anthem we did last Sunday!  Many people who sing along by
the pavement make money by doing so, and I might."

"If you’re caught, Dunston will flog you," I reminded him.

But he was far past a thing like that.  His eyes had glittered in rather
a wild way for three days now, and he said the Tommy with the black
moustache was always looking reproachfully at him, and if he shut his
eyes he saw him more distinctly than ever.  In fact, he was getting
larger and more threatening every minute.  He said:

"A mere flogging is nothing to what they endure in the trenches."

It was a sporting idea, and I would have risked it and gone with him; in
fact, I offered, being his great chum, but he would not allow me.

"No," he said, "nothing is gained by your coming.  This is entirely my
affair.  Besides, you wouldn’t tempt people to subscribe."

So he went, and escaped in the darkness, and I waited at the limit of
"bounds" with great anxiety to meet him when he came back.  My last word
to him was not to sing his bit out of an anthem, but something comic
about the War.  But he didn’t know anything comic about the War, and he
said, even if he did, that such a thing would only amuse common people,
who could not be supposed to give more than halfpence, if they gave
anything at all; whereas a solo from a fine anthem would attract a
better class, who understood more about music, and were more religious,
and consequently had more money.

So he went, and in about twenty minutes, to my great horror, I saw him
being brought back in the custody of Brown--our well known master!

The hateful Brown always loves to score off anybody not in his own
class, and so, seeing Percy warbling out of bounds in the middle of
Merivale, and about ten people, mostly kids, listening to him, he
pounced on the wretched Percy and dragged him away.  He’d been singing
about ten minutes when the blow fell, and he was fearfully upset about
it, because everything had been going jolly well, and he had already
made no less than sevenpence in coppers, all from oldish women.  He had
been told to go away from in front of a butcher’s shop, but nobody else
had interfered with him in the least, and he had sung the anthem solo
through twice, and was just off again when the brutal Brown came along
and saw the Merivale colours on his cap, recognized Percy minimus, and
very nearly had a fit.

So there it was; and he got flogged, and Dr. Dunston said it showed low
tastes, and would have been a source of great sorrow to his father.  And
he also said that to explode a sacred air in that way in hope of
touching the charitable to fill his own pocket was about the limit, and
a great disgrace to the school in general.  All of which went off Percy
like water off a duck’s back, and the flogging didn’t seem to hurt him
either.

And there were four days still, and he said his Tommy grew larger and
larger, until he was almost as big as a house.  In fact, Percy minimus
was rapidly growing dotty, and, as his great friend, I felt I must do
something, or he would very likely get some other dangerous illness, or
have a fit, or lose his mind for ever and become a maniac in real
earnest.  So I told Percy minor; but unfortunately he and my Percy had
quarrelled rather bitterly for the moment, and Percy minor said he
didn’t care what happened to Percy minimus; and that if he went out of
his mind he wouldn’t have far to go; while, as to Percy major, I
couldn’t tell him, because he had left Merivale the term before.

The matron now discovered that Percy was queer, for she’d been making
him take pills for two days, and then one night, hearing him sigh
fearfully after he was in bed, she tried his temperature, and found it
about three hundred degrees of warmth.  So she lugged him off to the
sick room, and Dr. Weston came in his motor, and said he couldn’t see
any reason for it, and gave Percy some muck to calm him down.

Next day he was kept in the sick room, though cooler, and when Dr.
Weston came on that day and questioned Percy in a kind tone of voice, he
explained the whole thing to the doctor, and said that he was in fearful
difficulties of mind.  And Dr. Weston asked him what difficulties, and
he said for two shillings, which, added to three, make five.

Then the doctor told him to go on, so he did, and showed the doctor the
advertisement from the paper about the simultaneous parcels.  He also
said that his Tommy had now grown as big as a cloud in the sky, and was
always looking at him by night and day hungrily, and urging him on to
fresh efforts.  And he also said that if he was only allowed to go into
the streets and sing an anthem for an hour or two, the two shillings
would be accomplished, and all would be well.  And encouraged by the
great interest of Dr. Weston, Percy minimus ventured to ask him if he
thought he could ask Dr. Dunston to allow this to be done, seeing it
meant great comfort and joy for a Tommy in the trenches on Christmas
Day.

It made Percy much cooler and calmer explaining why his temperature had
run up, and the doctor said it was undoubtedly not good for Percy to
have the Tommy so much on his mind.  He didn’t approve of the idea of
Percy singing either; but he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and
produced a two-shilling piece, as if it was nothing, and he said that if
the matron or somebody, would get a postal order for five shillings and
send it off at once, he had every reason to think that Percy would soon
recover.

Which was done, and I was allowed to see Percy, and bring from his desk
the cutting out of the newspaper, which he had already signed with his
name and address, which were to go to the Front with his parcel.  And
Percy said that a great weight had now been lifted from his brain, which
no doubt it had.

Anyhow, when Dr. Weston came next day he found Percy in a bath of
perspiration, and was much pleased, and said he was practically cured.
And Percy told him that his Tommy had now shrunk to about the size of an
ordinary Tommy, and only came when he was asleep, and was not in the
least reproachful, but quite pleasant and nice. And one day later the
Tommy disappeared altogether, and Percy minimus became perfectly well.
In fact, before the holidays arrived he seemed to have forgotten all
about his Tommy, and I took jolly good care not to remind him.

He got fearfully keen about Dr. Weston then, and said that he was the
best man he had ever seen or heard of; and he even hoped that next term
he might run up to three hundred degrees again--just for the great
pleasure of seeing and talking to this doctor once more.

But that wasn’t all by any means--in fact, you might say that far the
most remarkable part of the adventure of Percy minimus had yet to come.
He went home for the holidays, and when he came back, much to my
astonishment, he was full of his blessed Tommy again.  He actually said
that he’d got a photograph of him!

I thought that coming back to school had made him queer once more, but
he wasn’t in the least queer, for I saw the photograph with my own eyes.

It was like this: the Tommy who had got the Christmas parcel which
Percy’s five shillings bought, found Percy’s address in it, according to
the splendid arrangement of the newspaper, and, though far too busy in
the trenches to take any notice of it just then, he was not too busy to
smoke the new pipe and the cigarettes and eat the various sweets--no
doubt between intervals of fiery slaughter.  But he kept Percy’s address
in his pocket, for he was a good and grateful man; and then, most
unfortunately, he was hit in the foot by a piece of shrapnel shell, and
though far from killed, yet so much wounded that he had to retire from
the Front.  In fact, he was sent home to recover, and one day in
hospital, about a week before the end of the holidays, he had found
Percy minimus’s name and address in the pocket of his coat, and had
written Percy a most interesting letter of four pages, saying that the
parcel had been a great comfort to him, and that he had sucked the last
peppermint drop only an hour before being shrapnelled.  And, having been
photographed several times in the hospital by visitors, he sent Percy
minimus one.  And there he was!

I said it was a jolly interesting thing, and so on; but I couldn’t for
the moment see why Percy was so frightfully excited about it, because it
was quite a possible thing to happen, though, of course, very good in
its way, and a letter he would always keep.

And he said:

"You don’t seem to see the point, Cornwallis. It’s a miracle."

And I said:

"Why?"

And he said:

"Because this is the very identical Tommy I was always seeing in my
dreams--the very identical one!"

I hadn’t thought of that, but somehow taken it for granted.  Then he
pointed out it wasn’t in the least a thing to take for granted, but the
purest miracle that ever happened in the memory of man, and quite beyond
human power to explain it in the world.

I said there might be people in the world who could, but he wouldn’t
hear of such a thing.  He said:

"No--not in this world; but no doubt there are in the next."

And I said:

"Then you’ll have to wait."

And he said:

"It’s done one thing; it’s quite decided me about my future.  I’m going
to be a clergyman."

And I said:

"Not if your voice doesn’t crack, surely?"

"My voice!" answered Percy minimus with great scorn.  "What is a voice
compared to a miracle?  If miracles happen to you, then, if you’ve got
any proper feeling, you ought to insist on being a clergyman."

So I suppose he will be.  But whatever else he is--even if he rises to
be a Canon or a Bishop--he’ll always be a maniac, the same as his
brothers.




                             THE PRIZE POEM


Things were beastly dull at Merivale when we went back after the
Christmas holidays, and I believe even the Doctor felt it.  Of course,
from our point of view, his life must always be deadly, but I suppose he
gets a certain amount of feeble excitement into it, in ways not known to
us.  It’s rather interesting to wonder what old people do find worth
doing; yet they must do something to amuse themselves, off and on, or
they’d go mad, I should think, which they seldom do.  The amusements of
a very old person must be rather weird, yet they clearly like to be
alive, for when my grandmother died, she was eighty--a time of life when
you’d think there was simply nothing left.  Yet, when I went to say
farewell to her, she told me she hoped to see the spring flowers once
more. She didn’t; but it shows how fearfully hard-up old people must be
for amusement of any kind; for who on earth would want to see flowers,
spring or otherwise, if practically everything else had not been lost to
them?  Myself I would much rather have died years before than eat the
food my grandmother ate, and never go out except in a bath-chair; but
she found it good enough, strange to say.  So, no doubt, Dr. Dunston,
who is entirely active, and can eat meat and drink wine and walk rapidly
about, still finds being Head of Merivale School all right.

But the winter term was deadly, what with the bad weather and the slow
progress of the War, and losing most of our football matches, owing to
having a very weak team.

Then old Peacock, of all men--the new master, I mean--got an idea, and
Fortescue thought it was a good one, and Peacock proposed it to the
Doctor, and Dr. Dunston agreed to it.

In fact, he announced it after chapel during the third week of February
in these words:

"Our new friend, Mr. Peacock, has made a proposal to me, and I have
great pleasure not only in agreeing with him, but in congratulating him
on a very happy thought.  Suspecting that there may be mute, inglorious
Miltons amongst us--a sanguine hope I cannot share--Mr. Peacock has
thought that it would add an interest to the term and wake a measure of
enthusiasm and energy in the ranks of our versifiers if we initiate a
competition.  He suggests a prize poem upon the subject of the War; and
while my heart misgives me, yet I bow to Mr. Peacock’s generous
proposal.  You are invited, one and all of you, from the greatest to the
least, to write a prize poem on the subject of the War, and if such a
momentous theme fails to produce some notable addition to our war
poetry, then Mr. Peacock’s disappointment will be considerable.  He
trusts you to enter upon this task in no light spirit, and when I add
that Mr. Peacock proposes to give a prize of one guinea--twenty-one
shillings--to the victorious poet, you will see that a real effort is
needed.  You will have a calendar month to prepare and execute your
verses, which must be composed outside the regular school hours; and I
may tell you that unless a certain humble standard of intelligence and
poetic ability is reached, I shall direct Mr. Peacock to withhold his
prize."

Well, there it was; and, of course, a good deal of excitement occurred,
and it was jolly interesting to see who entered for the prize poem and
who did not.  No doubt Travers major would have won it without an
effort, being so keen about everything to do with war; but, luckily for
the rest, he had left to go to Woolwich the term before.  Travers minor
entered because he was strongly advised to, being a flier at literature
in general and keen about poetry; but he said frankly he should not
praise the War, but slate it, because he utterly disagreed with it and
hated war in general.

Of course, the prize being a guinea made a lot of difference, and many
unexpected chaps decided to write a prize poem, though most of these,
when they sat down with pens and ink to do it, found such a thing quite
beyond them in every way.

I myself--my name is Abbott--was one of these, and after reading a good
many real poems of the War, which Mr. Fortescue, who was a great poet
and much interested in the competition, kindly lent me, I found, on
setting out to do it, that the difficulties were far too great.  Rhymes
are easy enough to get, in a way, but when you come to string the poem
together, you generally find your rhymes aren’t solemn enough.  I
believe I could have written a screamily funny prize poem; but, of
course, that wouldn’t have pleased the Doctor, or Peacock either, so it
wasn’t any good wasting time being funny.  For instance, I wrote the
following poem in less than ten minutes:

    The Hun, the Hun, the footling Hun,
    Most certainly doth take the bun.


And Blades and several other chaps said it was jolly good.  But Blades,
who had also had a shot or two on the quiet, was like me--he could only
make comic poems, and the stanzas of his poem took the form of
Limericks.  He said he could invent them with the greatest ease--in
class, or at prayers, or at meals, or going to bed, or getting up, or in
his bath--in fact, at any time when he wasn’t playing football.  He gave
me an example, which seemed to me so frightfully good that I thought
very likely Peacock would have given him a consolation prize.  So he
tried it on Peacock; but Mr. Peacock thought nothing of it, and said
that was not at all the spirit of a prize poem, but belonged to the
gutter-press, whatever that is.  It ran like this:

        The Kaiser set off for Paree
        As if it was only a spree,
          But old French’s Army,
          It soon knocked him barmy,
        And now he is melancolee.
    He next had a flutter at Nancy,
    Though doubtless a little bit chancy;
      But his men got a doing,
      With plenty more brewing,
    So he galloped off, saying, "Just fancy!"


There were hundreds more verses--in fact, you might say the whole
history of the War as far as it had got; and I advised Blades to send it
to _The Times_--to buck it up--or _Punch_, or something; but he
wouldn’t, and when Peacock decided it was no use, he gave up writing it,
so a good poem was lost, in my opinion.

Many fell out before the appointed day for sending in the prize poems;
but many did not, and though it was natural that a good few chaps
chucked it, the extraordinary thing was the number of chaps who kept on
to the bitter end, so to speak, and sent in poems.  Almost the most
amazing was Mitchell.  He certainly had made a rude poem once in a
moment of rage, but as to real poetry, a cabbage might just as well have
tried to make a poem as him.  He was only keen about one thing in the
world, and that was money; and, of course, that was why he entered the
competition. He said to me: "I’d do much worse things than make a prize
poem, if anybody offered me a guinea. If it had been one of the Doctor’s
wretched prizes, I wouldn’t have attempted it; but a guinea is a guinea,
and as nobody here can make poetry for nuts, I’m just as likely to bring
it off as anybody else.  It’s taking a risk, in a way, but I’ve got my
ideas about the War, just as much as Travers minor or Sutherland, and,
if I don’t win, I shall get a bit of fun out of it, anyway."

He was a mean beast always, but cunning and frightfully crafty; and as
he had never had a decent idea in his life, let alone a poetical one, we
were all frightfully interested in Mitchell’s poem on the War.

The chap Sutherland he had mentioned was regarded as having a chance,
for he knew a lot about the War, and had two cousins in it, one in
France and one with the Fleet.  He got letters without stamps on them
from these chaps, but there was never much in them.  Thwaites also
entered, and he was known to write poetry and send it home; but it had
not been seen, and Thwaites, being delicate and rather fond of art and
playing the piano and such like piffle, we didn’t regard him as having
warlike ideas.  Besides, once, when Blades suddenly pulled out one of
his teeth in class and bled freely over Thwaites, who sat next to him,
Thwaites fainted at the sight of blood; which showed he couldn’t
possibly write anything worth mentioning on such a fearful subject as
war; because, you may say, a war is blood or nothing.

Only one absolute kid entered, and this was Percy minimus, who had sent
a Christmas pudding to the Front, and had the photograph of a "Tommy"
back.  So he wrote a prize poem which he let his friends see, and Forbes
minimus said it was good, as far as he could say to the contrary. No
doubt it appeared so to a squirt like Forbes minimus, but, of course, it
could not be supposed to stand against the work of Travers minor, or
Sutherland, or Rice.

I always rather thought myself that Rice might pull it off, being Irish
and a great fighter by nature. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anything
whatever about poetry; yet his fighting instinct made him enter, and
though he wasn’t likely to rhyme very well, or look after the scanning
and the feet and the spondees and dactyls, and all that mess, which, no
doubt, would count, yet I hoped that, for simple warlike dash, Rice
might bring it off.  I asked him about it, and he said a good many
things had gone wrong with it, but here and there were bits that might
save it.

He said:

"I believe I shall either win the guinea right bang off, or get
flogged."  Which interested me fearfully, but didn’t surprise me,
because it was rather the way with Rice to rush at a thing head-long and
come out top--or bottom.  He only really kept cool and patient and never
ran risks when he was fighting; but at everything else, which he
considered less important, he just dashed.  He had dashed at the prize
poem--very different from Tracey, who was always cool about everything,
and wouldn’t have gone to the Front himself for a thousand pounds.
Tracey was great at satire--in fact, satire was a natural gift with
him--and though, of course, it didn’t always come off, owing to being so
satirical that nobody saw it, still he often did get in a nasty one; and
sometimes got licked for doing so.

He told me his prize poem was all pure satire, and I said:

"I doubt if the Doctor or Peacock will see it."

And Tracey said:

"I can’t help that.  Poetry is art, and I can’t alter my great feeling
for satire to please them. It will come out; and even though old Dunston
and Peacock don’t see it, I know jolly well the Kaiser and the Crown
Prince would, if they read it."

Well, there it was, and that was about the lot worth mentioning who had
a shot at Mr. Peacock’s guinea.  The calendar month passed, and one day,
when classes began, the Doctor appeared, supported by Peacock,
Fortescue, and Brown.

Everybody was summoned into the chapel, and the Doctor, who dearly likes
a flare-up of this kind, told us that the prize poems had been judged
and were going to be read.

"I may tell you," he said, "that the prize has been won, contrary to my
fear that none would prove worthy of it.  But we are agreed that there
is a copy of verses on the solemn subject set for discussion that
disgraces neither the writer nor Merivale.  Indeed, I will go further
than that, and declare that one poem reflects no small credit on the
youthful poet responsible for it; and Mr. Peacock and Mr. Fortescue,
than whom you shall find no more acute and critical judges, share my own
pleasure at the effusion."

The Doctor then began to read the prize poems, and he started with that
of Percy minimus, much to Percy’s confusion.

"The views of Percy minimus on the War are elementary, as we should
expect from a youth of his years," said old Dunston.  "I may remark,
however, that he rhymes with great accuracy, and if he shows an
inclination to be didactic, and even give Lord Kitchener a hint or two,
I frankly pardon him for the sake of his concluding line. This reveals
in Percy minimus a flash of elevated feeling which does him infinite
credit.  One can only hope that his pious aspiration will be echoed by
those great nations doomed to defeat in the appalling catastrophe which
they have provoked."

Then he gave us the poem.


                                THE WAR

                            BY PERCY MINIMUS

    War is a very fearful thing, I’m sure you’ll all agree,
    But sometimes we have got to fight in order to be free.
    The Germans want to slaughter us, and do not understand
    We are a people famed in fight, and also good and grand.
    We never were unkind to them and never turned them out
    When unto England’s shores they came, to trade and look about.

    But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies,
    So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they’d take us by
            surprise.
    Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared,
    The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.
    Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand,
    I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.

    And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be supplied
    With splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside;
    But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall
            reach,
    Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.
    So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun,
    And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then God’s will be done!


We applauded Percy minimus for his sporting attempt, feeling of course,
it was piffle really, but good for a kid.  Then the Doctor said he was
going to read Rice.

"Mr. Fortescue," said Dunston, "has evinced the deepest interest in the
achievement of Rice. He tells me that there is now a movement in
art--including the sacred art of poesy--which is known as the Futurist
Movement.  Rice’s effort reminds Mr. Fortescue of this lamentable
outrage on the Muses, for it appears that the Futurists desire to thrust
all that man has done for art into the flames--to forget the glories of
Greece, to pour scorn on the Renaissance, to begin again with primal
chaos in a world where all shall be without form and void.  This is
Nihilism and a crime against culture.  For some mysterious reason, the
boy Rice, who we may safely assume has never heard of the Futurists
until this moment, appears to have emulated their methods and shared
their unholy extravagance of epithets, their frenzied anarchy, their
scorn of all that is lovely and of good repute.  He even permits himself
expressions that at another time would win something more than a rebuke.
I will now read Rice, not for my pleasure or yours, but that at least
you may learn what is not poetry, and can never be mistaken for poetry
by those who, like ourselves, have drunk at the Pierian spring."


                                  WAR

                                BY RICE

    Smash!  Crash!  Crash!  Bang!  Crash!  Bang!
    Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.
    Air full of puffs of smoke where shells are bursting overhead,
    Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!
    Roar of men charging and howling a savage song---
    "Now we shan’t be long!"  Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall,
    Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling head
      over heels like rabbits.
    And some sit up after the charge, and some don’t.
    Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all
            in!
    But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleeding
      and not knowing it.
    As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are at
      the charge and the bayonets are white--
    The white arm that goes in in front and out behind--
    Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.
    The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to hell by the
            million!
    Crash!  Crash!  Squash!  Smash!  Smash!  Smash!
    The trench is reached.  Blood spurts and bones crack like china.
    Gurgles!  Chokes!  Yells!  Helmets fly, bayonets stick
    And won’t come out!  Everybody is dead or dying in the
      trench--except twelve Tommies!
    Damns, growls, yells choked with blood!
    Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all
            separate!
    The trench is taken, and England has gained
    A hundred yards!  Hoorooh!
    Hoorooh!  Hoorooh!  Hoorooh!
    And what must it be to be there!!!

    Signed RICE.


I looked at Rice while his poem was being intoned by the Doctor.  He had
turned very red, but he stuck it well, and somehow, though, of course,
it was right bang off, and no rhymes or anything, I liked it.  And Mr.
Fortescue liked it, as he afterwards told Rice; but the Doctor and Mr.
Peacock fairly hated it, so that was the end of Rice.

They thought nothing of Tracey’s poem, either. The Doctor said:

"Tracey has produced what, for reasons best known to himself, he calls
’a satire.’  It possesses a certain element of crude humour, which, on
such a solemn theme, is utterly out of place.  Upon the whole, I regard
it as discreditable in a Sixth Form boy, and do not think the better of
Tracey for having written it."

He then read Tracey.


                                A SATIRE

                               BY TRACEY

    No doubt, O Kaiser, you have thought
      Napoleon was a duffer
    Compared to you, when you set out
      To make Old England suffer.
    But if you read your history books,
      You’ll very quickly find, Sir,
    That Boney knew, despite his faults,
      How to make up his mind, Sir.

    You flutter up, you flutter down,
      You flutter night and day, Sir,
    Yet somehow victory won’t look
      Your mad and fluttering way, Sir,
    But when the war by us is won,
      And in Berlin our men, Sir,
    You’ll be a bit surprised to find
      Where you will flutter then, Sir.


We laughed and thought it ripping; but the Doctor seemed to be hurt, and
said: "Silence, silence, boys!  It ill becomes us to jest at the
spectacle of a fallen potentate, and still less so before he has fallen.

"A more pleasing effort is that of Travers minor," went on the Doctor,
picking up the poem of Travers.  "We have here nothing to be described
as a picture of war, but rather the views of an intelligent and
Christian boy upon war. Personally, I think well of these verses.  They
are unostentatious--no flash of fire--but a temperate lament on war in
general and a final conviction not lacking in shrewdness.  I will not
say that I entirely agree with Travers minor in his concluding
assertion, but he may be right--he may be right.  At any rate, the poem
is a worthy expression of an educated mind, and by no means the worst of
those with which we are called to deal."

He then read Travers minor, and we were all frightfully disappointed,
for it turned out that Travers hated war, so the result wasn’t a war
poem at all, but a very tame affair without any dash about it--in fact,
very feeble, I thought.  His brother would have despised him for writing
it. Of course, Peacock wanted a poem praising up the glory of war, not
sitting on it, like Travers minor did.


                             THE FOG OF WAR

                            BY TRAVERS MINOR

    From out the awful fog of war
      One thing too well we see--
    That man has not yet reached unto
      His highest majesty.
    For battle is a fiendish art
      We share with wolf and bear,
    But man has got a soul to save--
      He will not save it there.
    This is the twentieth century,
      We boast our great good sense.
    And yet can only go to war
      At horrible expense
    Of human life.  It makes us beasts;
      We shout and spend our breath
    To hear a thousand enemies
      Have all been blown to death.
    And each of all those thousand men
      Was doubtless good and kind,
    As those, no doubt, remember well
      Whom he has left behind.
    And when I hear that war brings out
      Our finest qualities,
    I do believe with all my heart
      That is a pack of lies.


A deadly silence greeted the prize poem of Travers minor, and I believe
the Doctor felt rather sick with us for not applauding it.  And Tracey,
who was very mad at what the Doctor had said about him, whispered rather
loud that Travers minor’s effort was almost worthy of _Hymns Ancient and
Modern_.

There were only three poems left now, and the excitement increased a
good deal, because nobody had won Peacock’s guinea yet, so it was clear
that either Mitchell, or Thwaites, or Sutherland minor was the lucky
bargee.  Both Mitchell and Thwaites seemed beyond the wildest hope, and
we felt pretty sure that Sutherland must have done the trick. But he
hadn’t.  The Doctor picked up his poem and put on a doubtful expression.

"I confess that Sutherland gives me pause," he said.  "For skill in
rhyming, Sutherland deserves all praise--he is ingenious and
correct--but such is the faultiness of his ear that he flouts the
fundamentals of prosody in each of his four stanzas.  In fact,
Sutherland’s poetry, regarded as such, is excruciating.  He has ideas,
though not of a particularly exalted character; and even if he had given
us something better worthy to be called a poem, his lamentable failure
in metre would have debarred him from victory.  His last verse contains
an objectionable suspicion we might associate rather with a commercial
traveller or small tradesman, than with one of us."

Well, Sutherland’s wasn’t bad really, though rather rocky from a
poetical point of view, as the Doctor truly said.


                             KHAKI FOR EVER

                             BY SUTHERLAND

    Loud roars the dreadful cannon above the bloody field,
      While, like the lightning, through the smoke’s dim shroud
    The tongues of flame are flashing, where, concealed,
      The vainglorious enemy’s battery doth vaunt and laugh aloud,
    Thinking that men of British race are going to yield.

    Poor German cannon-fodder!  Little do they know
      That those who wear khaki have never yet
    Wherever, at the call of Bellona, they may go,
      Surrendered to a lesser foe than Death.  They’ve met
    Far finer fighters than the Boche, and made their life’s-blood
            flow.

    Whether upon the open battle-front, or in a trench,
      Or in a fort, or keeping communications,
    With such a leader as great General French
      The British khaki boys defeat all nations,
    And in the foeman’s gore their glittering bayonets they quench.

    And they will win, for right is on their side;
      And when they do, the neutrals shall not share
    The rich-earned booty the Allies divide;
      For, as they would not sail in and fight, it is not fair
    That they should win the fruits of this bloody tide.


We could see what the Doctor meant about Sutherland’s poem--it didn’t
flow exactly; but it might have been worse.  Then Dr. Dunston picked up
Mitchell’s poem and frowned; and Peacock frowned; and Fortescue also
frowned.  We didn’t know what was going to happen, for the Doctor made
no preliminary remarks on the subject of Mitchell.  He just gave his
glasses a hitch and glared over the top of Mitchell’s effort and then
read it out.


                          OLD ENGLAND FOR EVER

                              BY MITCHELL

    Oh, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel,
    The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs,
    And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of man!
    Rejoice, ye men of England, ring your bells.
    King George, your King and England’s, doth approach,
    Commander of this hot, malicious day!
    Our armour, that marched hence so silver bright,
    Hither returns all gilt with German blood;
    Our colours do return in those same hands
    That did display them when we first marched forth;
    And, like a jolly troup of huntsmen, come
    Our lusty English all with purple hands,
    Dyed in the slaughter of their Teuton foes.
    But to their home they will no more return
    Till Belgium’s free and France is also free;
    Then to their pale, their white-faced shore,
    Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides
    And coops from other lands her islanders--
    Even to that England, hedged in with the main,
    That water-walled bulwark still secure,
    Will they return and hear our thunderous cheers.
    But Belgium first, unhappy, stricken land,
    Which has, we know, and all too well we know,
    Sluiced out her innocent soul through streams of blood,
    Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries,
    Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
    To us for justice and rough chastisement,
    And, by the glorious worth of our descent,
    Our arm shall do it, or our life be spent.


The Doctor stopped suddenly and flung his eyes over us.  Naturally we
were staggered and full of amazement to think of a hard blade like
Mitchell producing such glorious stuff.  Any fool could see it was
poetry of the classiest kind.

"Do you desire to hear more?" shouted the Doctor.

And we said, "Yes, sir!"

"Then seek it in the immortal pages from whence the boy Mitchell has
dared to steal it!" he thundered out, growing his well-known, deadly red
colour.  "With predatory hand and audacity from which the most hardened
criminal would have shrunk, this abominable boy, insolently counting on
the ignorance of those whose unfortunate duty it is to instruct him, has
appropriated the Bard to his own vile uses; and his cunning has led him
to interpolate and alter the text in such a manner that sundry passages
are made to appear as one. Mitchell will meet me in my study after
morning school.  I need say no more.  Words fail me----"

And they actually did, which was a record in its way.  The Doctor panted
for a bit, then he picked up Mitchell’s poem, or rather, Shakespeare’s,
as if it was a mouse that had been dead a fortnight, and dropped it on
the ground.  It was rather a solemn moment--especially for Mitchell--and
the only funny thing about it was to see the Sixth. Of course, they’d
been had by Mitchell, just the same as us in the Fifth--in fact,
everybody; but they tried to look as if they’d known it was Shakespeare
from the first.  As for Mitchell, he had made the rather rash mistake of
thinking old Dunston and Peacock and Fortescue didn’t know any more
about Shakespeare than he did; and now he sat awful white, but resigned.
As a matter of fact, he got the worst flogging he ever did get, and had
a narrow squeak of being expelled also.  It calmed him down for days
afterwards, and he was also called "King John" till the end of the term,
as a mark of contempt, which he badly hated.

Then the Doctor snorted himself calm, and his face grew its usual
colour.  He picked up Thwaites, and ended with the tamest poem of the
lot, in my opinion.  Which shows that grown-up people and boys have a
very different idea about what is poetry and what isn’t.

"The verses of Thwaites have won the poet’s bay," said Dr. Dunston.
"Thwaites alone has written a work worthy to be called a poem.  His
stanzas possess music and reveal thought and feeling.  Neither
technically are they open to grave objection.  I congratulate Thwaites.
Though not robust, or a pillar of strength, either in his class, or in
the field, he possesses a refined mind, a capacity of emotion and a
power for expressing that emotion in terms of poetry that time and
application may possibly ripen and mature.  Such, at least, is my
opinion, and those who have sat in judgment share it with me."

He then gave us Thwaites--twittering sort of stuff, and interesting, not
because Thwaites had got "the poet’s bay," whatever that is, but because
he had landed Peacock’s guinea.  Nobody much liked his prize poem except
the masters, and even Thwaites himself said it wasn’t any real good, and
was written when he had a beastly sore throat and was feeling utterly
down on his luck.  In fact, he was going to call it "Lines Written in
Dejection at Merivale," like real poets do, only he got better before he
finished the last verse, and so didn’t.


                              TO THE EARTH

                              BY THWAITES

    Suffer, sad earth; no pain can equal thine:
    Thy giant heart must ever be a shrine
    For all the sorrows of Humanity.
    As one by one the stricken ages die,
    The bright beams of the stars are turned to tears,
    And howling winds that whistle down the years
    Sigh "Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!" and are gone
    Into the silence of oblivion.
    Suffer, great world; the poison fangs of Death
    Can only wound, not kill thee....  Lo! the breath
    Of everlasting dawn is in the wind;
    The distant throbbing of a giant Mind
    Shall set the music of the Universe
    Once more in time--with harmony coerce
    The discord of a warring race to cease
    And sorrow die within the arms of peace.


Thwaites spent his guinea almost entirely on tuck, and though he was
very generous with it, and shared the grub with the competitors Rice and
Sutherland minor, who were his friends, he still kept enough to make
himself ill again.  For it was one of the unlucky things about Thwaites
that any muck really worth eating always bowled him over. He wrote a
poem three times as long as his War poem, called "Effect of Cocoanut
Rock on the Tummy of Thwaites"; but Dunston wouldn’t have purred much
over that.




                              THE REVENGE


If anybody has done a crime, Dr. Dunston generally speaks to them before
the school, so that all may hear what the crime is.  And according to
the way he speaks to them, we know the sort of fate in store.

If he says he remembers what it was to be a boy himself, there is great
hope, for, as Mitchell pointed out, that means the Doctor has himself
committed the crime in far-off times when he was young; but if he
doesn’t say he remembers what it was to be a boy himself, then the crime
is probably a crime he never committed; and these are the sort he
punishes worst.

Well, in the case of Tudor, he had never committed Tudor’s crime, and he
himself said, when ragging Tudor before punishment, that he had never
even heard of such a crime.  Therefore the consequences were bad for
Tudor, and he was flogged and his greatest treasure taken away from him
for ever.

It was, no doubt, a very peculiar crime, and Mitchell told Tudor that it
was not so much the crime itself as the destructive consequences, that
had put the Doctor into such a bate.  But we found out next term that
the destructive consequences had been sent home in a bill for Tudor’s
father to pay, and they amounted to two pounds, so Tudor caught it at
home also.

Well, it was like this: Tudor came back for the spring term with a
remarkably interesting tool called a glazier’s diamond.  He had saved up
and bought it with his own money, and it was valuable, having in it a
real diamond, the beauty of which was that it could cut glass.  It could
also mark glass for ever; and, after a good deal of practice, on
out-of-the-way panes of glass in secluded places, Tudor had thoroughly
learned the difficult art of writing on glass.  We were allowed to walk
round the kitchen garden sometimes upon Sunday afternoons, and,
occasionally, if a boy was seedy and separated from the rest for a day
or two, for fear he had got something catching, such a boy was allowed
in the kitchen garden under the eye of Harris, the kitchen gardener.

And Tudor often got queer and threatened to develop catching things,
though he never really did; but on the days when he threatened, he
generally escaped lessons and was allowed in the kitchen garden.
Needless to say, that this place was full of opportunities for
practising the art of writing on glass, and, as nothing was easier than
to escape from the eye of Harris, he used these opportunities, and wrote
his name and mine and many others on cucumber frames, and on the side of
a hot-house used for growing grapes, and also on the window of a
potting-shed.

I am Pratt, and Tudor and me were in the Lower Fourth.  It was a class
that Dr. Dunston, unfortunately, took for history, and on those
occasions we went to his study for the lesson and stood in a row, which
extended from the window to the front of Doctor Dunston’s desk.  He sat
behind the desk, and took the class from there.  But there was a great
difference in Tudor and me, because I was at the top of the Lower Fourth
and he was at the bottom.  In the case of the Doctor’s history class,
however, this was a great advantage for Tudor, because the bottom of the
class was by the window, and the top was in front of the Doctor.

Well, Tudor actually got the great idea of writing with his glazier’s
diamond on the Doctor’s window!  I advised him not, but he disdained my
advice, and wrote in the left-hand top corner of the bottom sheet of
glass.  He wrote very small, but with great clearness, and it took him
seven history lessons to finish, because it was only at rare moments he
could do it.  But the Doctor was now and then called out of his study by
Mrs. Dunston, or somebody; and once he had to go and see the mother of a
new boy who had written home to say he was being starved.  It took ten
minutes to calm this mother down, and during that interval Tudor
finished his work.  He had written the amusing words--

                          "BEYNON IS A LOUSE,"

and we were all rather pleased, except Beynon. But he well deserved the
insult, being a fearful outsider and generally hated; and, in any case,
he couldn’t hit back, for though he had been known to sneak many a time
and oft, yet it wasn’t likely he would sneak about a thing that showed
him in his true colours, like the writing on the Doctor’s study window.

Well, it was a triumph in a way, and everybody heard of it, and it was a
regular adventure to go into the Doctor’s study and see the insult to
Beynon, which, of course, would last forever, unless somebody broke the
window; and, in fact, Beynon once told me, in a fit of rage, that he
meant to break the window and take the consequences.  But he hadn’t the
pluck, even when he got an excellent chance to do so; and when, in
despair, he tried to bribe other chaps to break the window, he hadn’t
enough money, so he failed in every way, and the insult stood.

I must tell you the writing was very small, and could only be seen by
careful scrutiny.  It was absolutely safe from the Doctor, or, in fact,
anybody who didn’t know it was there; and, naturally, Tudor never felt
the slightest fear that it would ever be seen by the eyes of an enemy.

When, therefore, it was discovered, and shown to the Doctor, and all was
lost, Tudor felt bitterly surprised.  It came out that a housemaid, who
disliked Beynon, found it when she was cleaning the window, and she
showed it to Milly Dunston, and the hateful Milly, who loathed Tudor,
because he had once given her a cough lozenge of a deadly kind, and made
her suck it before she had found out the truth, promptly told her mother
about the inscription, and her mother sneaked to the Doctor.

Discovery might still have been avoided, but, unfortunately, Tudor’s
glazier’s diamond was well known, because he had been reported by Brown
for scratching Brown’s looking-glass over the mantelpiece in Brown’s
study, when he thought Brown was miles away, and Brown came in at the
critical moment.  So Dunston knew only too well that Tudor had a
glazier’s diamond, and, owing to the laws of cause and effect, felt
quite sure that Tudor had done the fatal deed.

Therefore Tudor suffered the full penalty, and Dr. Dunston told the
school that Tudor’s coarseness was only exceeded by his lawless
insolence and contempt for private property.  That it should have been
done in his own study, during intervals of respite in the history
lesson, naturally had its effect on the Doctor, and made it worse for
Tudor. The glazier’s diamond had to be given up, and Tudor was flogged;
but being very apt to crock and often bursting out coughing without any
reason, the Doctor did not flog Tudor to any great extent; and it was
not the flogging, but the loss of his glazier’s diamond that made Tudor
so mad and resolved him on his revenge.

Well, he had a very revengeful nature, as a matter of fact, and if
anybody scored on him, he was never, as you may say, contented with life
in general until he had scored back.  And he always did so, and
sometimes, though he might have to wait for a term or even two, he was
like the elephant that a man stuck a pin into, who remembered it and
instantly killed the man when he met him again twenty years later.

To be revenged in an ordinary way is, of course, easy; but to be
revenged against the Doctor is far from easy, and I reminded Tudor how
hard it had been even to revenge himself on Brown, when Brown scored
heavily off him; and if it was hard to be revenged on a master like
Brown, what would it be to strike a blow at the Doctor?

He said it might or might not come off; but he should be poor company
for me, or anybody, until he had had a try, and he developed his scheme
of a revenge, and thought of nothing else until the idea was ready to be
put into execution.

He said:

"It’s not so much a revenge, really, as simple justice.  He took my
glazier’s diamond, which was the thing I valued most in the world,
naturally; and what I ought to do, if I could, Pratt, would be to take
from him the thing he values most in the world."

I said:

"That’s hidden from you."

And he said:

"No, it isn’t: the thing that he values most in the world is Mrs.
Dunston."

I said:

"Well, you can’t take her away from him."

And he said:

"I might.  Some people would remove her by death.  Of course, I wouldn’t
do anything like that.  She’s all right, though how she can live with a
grey and brutal beast like the Doctor, I don’t know--or anybody.  But,
of course, I can’t strike him there.  I’ve merely decided to take
something he can’t do without.  He’ll be able to make it good in time,
but not all in a minute; and in the meanwhile he’ll look a fool, besides
being useless to the world at large."

It was dangerous, but interesting.

I said:

"What could you take so important as all that, without being spotted?"

And he said:

"Swear not to tell anybody living."

And I swore.

Then he said:

"His glasses!"

It was a great thought, worthy of Tudor, and, of course, without his
glasses the Doctor would be hopelessly done.  He cannot read a line
without them, and when he takes a Greek class, strange to say, he wears
two pairs--his ordinary double-glasses, against the naked eye, and a
pair of common spectacles, of very large size, on his nose outside.  In
this elaborate way he reads Greek.

Well, I praised Tudor, but reminded him it was stealing.

And he said:

"I know: that’s where the justice comes in.  He stole my glazier’s
diamond.  Now I’m going to steal his glasses."

"Shall you ever give them back?" I asked.

And he said:

"I may, or I may not.  The first thing is to get them."

"He takes them off to stretch his eyes sometimes," I reminded Tudor.

"Yes, and for tea," said Tudor.  "If he goes in to Mrs. Dunston’s room
for a hasty cup of tea, he generally leaves the glasses in the study on
his desk till he comes back to work."

Well, Tudor got them.  In a week from the day he decided to take them,
he had an opportunity. Every day that week he had contrived to be around
when tea-time came on, and once Dr. Dunston found him hanging about the
passage, and told him to be gone.  But he was crowned with success, and
that same night in the playground, by the light of my electric torch,
Tudor showed me the solemn sight of the double-eyeglasses of the Doctor
actually in his hand!

Well, he was fearfully excited about it, and concealed the glasses for a
few hours in his playbox. Then, fearing there might be a hue and cry,
and everything stirred to its foundations, he took the glasses out just
before supper, and concealed them in a crevice on the top of the
playground wall, only known to me and him.

That night he did not sleep for hours, and more did I.  I pictured the
Doctor’s terrible anger at having to stop reading the news of the War,
and Tudor told me next morning that he had put the Doctor out of action
for all school purposes, as well as private reading, and we might hope
for at least three days without him, as it would take fully that time to
manufacture such glasses as he wore.

But a bitter disappointment was in store for Tudor, and when the usual
moment came for prayers in the chapel before breakfast, lo and behold,
Dr. Dunston sailed in with a pair of glasses perched on his nose in the
customary place!  We could hardly believe our eyes; then we quickly
perceived that Dunston evidently kept a reserve pair of glasses for fear
of accidents.  And the accident had happened, and he had fallen back
upon the reserve pair, no doubt in triumph.

Well, Tudor said it was gall and wormwood to be done like that, and even
thought of stealing the second pair of glasses; but then a strange and
sudden thing overtook Tudor, and the very next Sunday a man came to
preach at the chapel service for a good cause; and the good cause was a
Medical Drug Fund for natives in the wilds of Africa. These natives
become Christians under steady pressure, and after that always seem to
be in need of drugs, especially quinine; and Tudor, who, owing to his
lungs and one thing and another, had a good experience of drugs, was
deeply interested, and gave sixpence to the Medical Drug Fund, and
showed a strong inclination to become a collector for the Medical Drug
Missionary.  I had often read of sermons altering a person’s ideas, and
making him or her inclined to be different from that moment onwards, but
I never saw it actually happen in real life before.  Yet, in the case of
Tudor, that Medical Drug sermon, and the stirring anecdotes of the
savage tribes, tamed into well-behaved invalids by the Missionary, had a
wonderful effect upon him, and it took the strange form of making him
rather down-hearted about Dr. Dunston’s glasses.  Nothing had been said
when they disappeared, and no fuss was made at all; and I advised him
just to take them back quietly, when a chance presented itself, and slip
them under some papers on the Doctor’s desk, and leave the rest to time.

I said:

"You’d better do it now, while this feeling about being a collector for
the Missionary is on you.  It will soon pass off, and then you won’t
want to give them back."

He said:

"To show you how I did feel before hearing the Drug Missionary, Pratt, I
may tell you I had an idea of taking the glasses home next holidays, and
buying a new glazier’s diamond and writing on the glasses the bitter
words, ’THOU SHALT NOT STEAL,’ and then returning them to his desk next
term.  But there are two very good reasons why I shall not do that.  One
is this strong pro-missionary feeling in me, and the other is that, if I
did, Dunston would guess to a dead certainty who had done it, knowing
only too well what I can do in the matter of writing on glass."

"He would," I told Tudor.  "So the sooner you put them back unharmed,
the better."

"I shall," said Tudor, "and I’m going to return them in a very peculiar
way.  I am going to hide them in a certain place, and then I am going to
write an anonymous letter to Dunston, telling him they are in that
place."

Well, I thought nothing of this idea.

I said:

"Why make it so beastly complicated?  Besides, anonymous letters are
often traced by skilled detectives, and if it was found you wrote it,
where are you then?"

And he said:

"I have no fear about that, because the letter will all be carefully
printed; and my reason for writing a letter at all is to explain to him
that the Unknown, who took his glasses away, is sorry."

"What on earth does that matter to him?" I said.

"It matters to me," explained Tudor.  "As you know, that Drug Missionary
made a great impression upon me, and I have come to be very sick with
myself that I did this thing.  Of course, I am not nearly sick enough to
give the show away and tell Dunston I did it, but I am sick enough to
say I am sorry, and I want him to know it--anonymously."

Well, this was beyond me, and I told Tudor so. He then said:

"Sometimes, Pratt, people don’t pay quite enough income tax; but
presently there comes a feeling over them that they have defrauded the
innocent and trustful Government, and their hearts are softened--I dare
say often by a missionary, like mine was--and then they send five-pound
notes by great stealth to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and feel
better.  And their consciences are quickly cured.  But they take jolly
good care not to send their names, because they know that, if they did,
the Chancellor of the Exchequer would go much further, and, far from
rewarding them for their conduct, would very likely want more still, and
never trust them again about their incomes, and persecute them to their
dying day.  And it’s like that with me."

Then I saw what he meant; and I also saw that there may be a great
danger in listening to missionaries, and was exceedingly sorry that
Tudor had done so.  I still advised him not to write to the Doctor, and
felt sure his conscience would be just as comfortable if he didn’t; but
when Tudor decides to carry out a project, he carries it out, and he is
generally very unpleasant till he has. Accordingly, he dropped the
Doctor’s glasses into a deep Indian jar which stood on the mantelpiece
in the study, and then, in great secret with me, he wrote his letter.
It happened he had just got a new Latin Delectus, and at the end of this
book was a sheet of clean paper without a mark upon it.  We cut it out
with a penknife, and took a school envelope and two halfpenny stamps,
and wrote the letter and posted it to the Doctor on the following day.

Well, the letter ran in these words, all printed, so that there was no
handwriting in it; and the envelope, needless to say, was also printed
in a very dexterous and utterly misleading manner.


"DEAR SIR,

"I regret to have to confess that I stole your eyeglasses in a bad
moment.  There was a very good reason, but, all the same, I am sorry,
and also clearly know now that it was a very wrong thing to do.  It was
a revenge, but it came to nothing, because you had a pair in reserve. I
am glad you had.  I prefer to be Unknown.

"Your glasses are in a beautiful and rare Indian jar at the left-hand
corner of your mantel-piece, and I hope you will forgive, because my
eyes have been opened by the visit of the Drug Missionary to Merivale,
and I am sorry.

"I am, dear Sir, your well-wisher,
    "THE UNKNOWN."


Well, this good and mysterious letter Tudor posted, and the very next
morning, curiously enough, he entirely ceased to want to collect for the
Drug Missionary.  In fact, from that moment he fell back quite into his
usual way of looking at things, and, by the next evening, actually said
he was sorry he had given Dr. Dunston back his glasses.  But he was
sorrier still three days later, for then a very shattering event indeed
happened to Tudor.  The Doctor sent for him, and he went without the
least fear, to find his anonymous letter lying on the Doctor’s desk.

I heard the whole amazing story afterwards. The Doctor asked him first
if he had written the letter, and, being taken utterly unawares and
frightfully fluttered at the shock, almost before he knew what he was
doing, you may say, Tudor confessed that he had.

Then the Doctor told him how vain it was for any boy to seek to deceive
him.  He said: "You see how swiftly your sin has found you out, Tudor."

And Tudor admitted it had.  He was now, of course, prepared for the
worst, yet, as he told me, his chief feeling at that moment was not so
much terror as a frightful longing to know how the Doctor had spotted
him.  Of course, he couldn’t dare to ask, so he merely admitted that his
sin certainly had found him out quicker than he expected; and then,
rather craftily, he said he was glad it had.

Well, the Doctor didn’t believe this; but he was not in a particularly
severe mood that evening, strange to say, and he told Tudor exactly what
had happened.  He said:

"It may interest you to know, misguided boy, that mentioning your
anonymous letter to Mr. Brown, and informing him that I had found my
lost glasses in the spot indicated, he evinced a kindly concern, and
even assured me that he would probably have no great difficulty in
discovering the culprit.  In the brief space of four-and-twenty hours he
did so.  Perceiving that the paper on which you wrote was obviously from
a book of a certain folio, his first care was to ascertain, by
comparisons of size, from what work it had come. Perceiving also that
the paper was extraordinarily clean, he had no difficulty in concluding
it was extracted from a new book.  He then discovered that the page came
from a Latin Delectus, and, on further inquiry, was able to learn that
three copies of the work had recently been issued to members of the
Lower Fourth.  Pursuing his investigations, when the boys had retired to
rest, he speedily marked down the mutilated volume in your desk, Tudor;
and while I have already thanked him for his zeal and penetration, I
feel little doubt that a time will come when, looking back on this dark
page in your history, you will thank him also."

Well, Tudor didn’t give his views about Brown, but he said the glasses
had been very much on his mind, only he had not liked to return them
without saying he was bitterly sorry.  He told me afterwards that he was
very nearly saying to Dr. Dunston that some boys would have returned the
glasses without even an anonymous letter of regret; but fortunately he
did not.

The Doctor then took him through the letter, and invited him to throw
light upon it.  He was chiefly interested in the part about revenge, and
he forced Tudor to explain that the revenge was because Dr. Dunston had
taken away his glazier’s diamond.  Dr. Dunston then said that incident
was long ago closed, and that, in fact, after the pane of glass in his
study had been taken out and a new one put in, he had dismissed the
matter from his mind.  He seemed much surprised that Tudor had not
dismissed the matter from his mind also, and he told him that the
revengeful spirit always came to grief in the long run.  He then wound
up by saying:

"You sign yourself ’The Unknown,’ wretched boy, but let this be a lesson
to you that henceforth you are neither unknown to your head master or
your God.  For the rest, since you have the grace, in this penitential
though patronizing communication, to express sincere regret at your
conduct, and also to record the fact that you are my ’Well-wisher,’
though that is not at all the sort of expression suitable from a Fourth
Form scholar to his head master--since, I say, I find these signs of
grace, I shall not inflict the extreme penalty on this occasion.  For
the moment I have not determined on my next step, and will thank you to
wait upon me this time to-morrow.  Now you may go."

And Tudor said:

"Thank you very much, sir," and went.

He was a great deal cast down, and admitted, for once, I was right.  But
though his feeling for the Doctor was now, on the whole, one of patience
and thankfulness, his feeling for Brown was very different, and when the
wretched Brown grinned at Tudor, and rotted him in class, and told the
whole story of how he had played the beastly sleuth-hound on Tudor, and
started calling him "The Unknown," Tudor took it with dignified silence,
and from that instant started to plan the greatest revenge of his life.
He told me that it might not be at Merivale he would be revenged, but in
the world at large, and if it was not until Brown had grown old and
bald-headed, the end was bound to be just the same, and the rest of
Brown’s life, however long it might last, would undoubtedly be ruined by
Tudor.  And he also said that he was jolly glad the missionary feeling
had left him, so that not a shadow of remorse might come between him and
Brown when "The Day" arrived.

Well, there was only one thing more rather interesting about Tudor’s
revenge on the Doctor, and that was Dr. Dunston’s revenge on Tudor.
Tudor went to him again at the appointed time, and, after a lot of jaw,
the Doctor told Tudor that he must now write out the complete article on
"Optics," in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, including all the algebra
and everything.  There were exactly ten huge pages of this deadly stuff,
and Tudor was fairly frantic at first; but curious to relate, after he
had done one page, he found it quite interesting in its way.  Then it
got more and more interesting, as it went on, and Tudor finally decided
that there was no doubt, with his strong feeling for the science of
optics, that he ought to take it up as a profession.

I asked him if he should take up microscopes or telescopes, and he said
telescopes certainly, because that meant astronomy, and in time you
might rise to be Astronomer Royal of Greenwich, which was something.

I said:

"It is a great thing to know the stars and comets by their names."

And he said:

"Yes, Pratt, and another great advantage of astronomy is that you may be
out all night whenever you choose, and nobody can say a word against
you."

So the extraordinary event came about that what Dr. Dunston intended as
a stiff imposition and sharp punishment on Tudor, really worked in a
very different manner, and instead of crushing Tudor and grinding him
under the heel of Dr. Dunston, so to speak, only put into Tudor the
splendid idea of mastering the heavens, and then, some day, getting the
perfect freedom by night of an Astronomer Royal of Greenwich.




                          THE "TURBOT’S" AUNT


Of course, he was not really called "Turbot"; but just after he came to
Merivale, some ass in the Fifth started the silly rag of calling
everybody after a fish, and pretty well every fish known to science was
rung in.  In fact, they just about went round.  Sometimes the likeness
was fairly clear and the simile was good.  For instance, being head of
the school, I was called "Salmon," which is the king of fish; and as I
am underhung and have rather fierce eyes, there was a certain fitness in
calling me "Salmon."  But after I had decided that Abbott could not have
his colours for "footer," being lame, there was a feeling against me
among Abbott’s friends, and Tracey called me "Tinned Salmon," which was
merely silly and not in the least amusing.  Nor was it amusing to call
Maybrick "Sardine" because he kept tins of this fish in his desk; but
"John Dory" was all right for Nicholas, that being the ugliest fish in
the sea, and Nicholas the ugliest chap at Merivale.  "Porpoise" was true
for Preston, who inclines to great fatness, and blows after exertion in
a very porpoise-like way; but to call Briggs "Herring" because he was a
"doter on a bloater," as Tracey said, and to call Tracey himself a
"Torpedo Ray" because he was always trying to give shocks, was footling
without being funny.  On the other hand, it was neat to call Pratt
"Cuttlefish," because he was always inky to the elbows; and as far as
Bradwell was concerned, the nickname of "Turbot" suited him very well,
owing to his eyes, which always goggled if a master spoke to him, and
also owing to his mouth, which was all lips and rather one-sided when he
laughed.

Kids, of course, have a poor sense of what is really funny, owing to
their general ignorance. Yet they prefer their own feeble jokes to ours.
A joke that the Sixth sees in a moment is utterly lost on them, while
utter piffle, that no sane person would smile at, makes them scream.
We, for instance, called Mitchell "Shark" because of his well-known
habits over money, but this did not amuse the kids in the least; while
they called Forbes minimus "Whale" because he was the smallest boy in
the school; which naturally could not cause anybody but an idiot the
least amusement.

Well, Bradwell was far from interesting from a mental point of view,
having, as our master, Mr. Fortescue, said, apparently outgrown his
brains. He was just at his seventeenth birthday when these remarkable
events happened; but at first glance, and, in fact, until you talked to
him, you would at once have said he was grown up.  He was in the Lower
Fifth, and it really looked as though a master was in the Lower Fifth
rather than a pupil. And he was only there because it would have been a
burlesque to put him any lower, though in strict justice, as far as his
knowledge was concerned, he would have been in his right place in the
Upper Third.  But he had to stop in the Lower Fifth, and even there was
an absurd sight, being six feet high and very large in every way, and
having a distinct moustache, which, owing to its being black, could not
be hidden.  What a scissors could do he did; but it was there, and grew
by night, and could not be concealed.  He was a very finely made chap,
and had magnificent muscles; but such was his awkwardness and stupidity
that he couldn’t even use these muscles properly, and he was no earthly
good even in the gym.  At games he failed utterly, though he tried hard;
but he was too slow even for a full-back at "footer," and couldn’t get
down quick enough for a "goaley"; in fact, rapid movement seemed utterly
beyond his power.  At cricket he was also an object of utter scorn, for
despite his hands, which were huge, he couldn’t hold the simplest catch;
and despite his reach, which was that of a six-foot chap, he had not the
humblest idea of timing a ball, or the vaguest notion of how to play a
stroke.  In fact, such was his unworthiness that he could only have
played in the third eleven, and as that was naturally composed of kids
of eleven and twelve, it would have been an outrage to see him in it.
Bradwell meant well, but he was rather barred, not from dislike, but
simply because he had, as it were, grown up before his time, and had a
kid’s mind in a man’s body.  In fact, he fell between two stools, in a
manner of speaking, because, to the Sixth and the masters, he was a
thing of nought, while to those who had a mind like his own, he was
grown up and no use in any way.

I was the only one at Merivale who understood his weird case, and when
he first came, I let him fag for me; but he was awful as a fag, and such
was his over-anxiety to please and shine that he never did either.  I
had, in fact, to chuck him.  At sixteen years and eleven months of age
he led rather a lonely life; but when the War broke out, he said he was
very interested in it, and asked me sometimes if I would be so good as
to explain military matters to him.  Which I did in the simplest words
possible, as anything like regular military terms would have been far
beyond him.  On hearing that aeroplanes have great difficulty in
descending by night, he invented a scheme of stretching strong nets with
a big mesh on poles ten feet above the ground, spread over half a mile
of landing-place, to catch them.  This showed mind in a way; but he
never appeared to have any real martial instinct, and when once a girl
in Merivale handed him a white feather, he stopped and took off his hat
and said:

"I quite understand what you mean, but I shan’t be seventeen for a
fortnight yet."

This the girl naturally refused to believe, and the "Turbot" came to me
and complained about it.

As a matter of fact, I rather backed up the girl--not for giving
"Turbot" a white feather, which is a vulgar and silly thing to give
anybody, because you never know, as the great case of Fortescue
showed--but because she didn’t believe "Turbot" when he said he was only
just about to be seventeen.  To look at him, he might easily have been
married, which shows appearances are very deceptive.  But, anyway, I
said:

"You can’t blame a flapper for thinking you are of age to join the Army,
Bradwell.  Anybody would think so, and lots of younger-looking chaps
than you have said they were eighteen, and been passed without a murmur,
though their birth certificates would have given them away.  But anybody
six feet high and with a clearly visible black moustache, and with your
muscles, would pass the authorities, and you may bet that many have."

He merely goggled, and said no doubt I was right.

I must tell you that "Turbot" had no father or mother, and, in fact,
nobody but a single, oldish aunt who lived at Plymouth.  But he had a
guardian, who sent him to Merivale when his family unfortunately died;
and at first he stopped at Merivale in the holidays.  But once the aunt
took him for a fortnight at Easter; and she appeared to like him, for,
after that, he always went to her. The guardian did not, however, like
"Turbot," and "Turbot" would have been quite content to stop at Merivale
in the holidays, rather than spend his time with the guardian, who had
no friendly feeling for him.  In fact, you may say that "Turbot" was a
duty rather than a pleasure to the guardian.

Then, at the beginning of the autumn term, in the first year of the War,
"Turbot’s" aunt wrote to Dr. Dunston and asked if "Turbot" might spend
Saturday till Monday with her, because it was going to be his birthday;
and the Doctor gave permission.

So "Turbot" went, and naturally was not missed in any way till Monday
morning.  Then at roll-call before chapel, the "Turbot’s" well-known
bleat was not heard, and it was soon perceived that he’d done something
very much out of the common.

Nothing had been heard from his aunt, apparently, and so a telegram was
dispatched to her, and, as no reply came to it, Dr. Dunston began to
worry.  He then sent off a telegram to the guardian, and the excitement
decidedly thickened. After dinner the Doctor sent for me, as head boy,
and told me that the guardian had heard nothing whatever about "Turbot."

"I may tell you, Travers," he said, "though there is no reason to repeat
it, that Bradwell is not _persona grata_ with the gentleman who stands
to him _in loco parentis_.  That is unfortunate for Bradwell, because he
may lack friends in the future, being a boy without any mental ability,
or that charm and power to please we occasionally find in the stupid
lad.  His guardian, however, evinces no uneasiness at the disappearance
of Bradwell, and my knowledge of human nature inclines me to doubt if
the individual in question will much care whether Bradwell returns or
does not.  I speak, of course, in confidence.  But he is a busy man, and
has a large family of his own, with its concomitant anxieties.  He sends
his own boys to Harrow, and it is not for us to judge his motives in so
doing, or whether they are guided by disinterested desire for the future
welfare of an obscure attorney’s sons, or influenced by that spirit of
snobbishness from which few Englishmen are entirely free.

"Now, I shall ask you this afternoon, Travers, to undertake a little
mission which I can safely trust to you.  We are, as you know, very
short-handed, and to spare a master is almost impossible. I will
therefore invite you to go as far as Plymouth, call at No. 10 Mutley
Plain Villas, and ask to see Miss Mason, the maternal aunt of Bradwell,
and his sole surviving relative.  It is a somewhat delicate duty, and
you must regard it as a compliment that I seek your aid.  Here is half a
crown for your return railway fare.  You will alight at Mutley Station,
and should catch the five-thirty train back to Merivale.  The lady has
not responded to my telegram, hence my desire, before putting the matter
in the hands of the police, to learn all she may be able to tell us.
Present my card, and she will see you at once if at home.  If not, wait
until she returns."

It was rather a responsible thing, and a great compliment to me.  So I
went, first putting on my best clothes and a new pair of gloves.
Arrived at Plymouth, I got out at Mutley, and easily found Mutley Plain
Villas, which were only a quarter of a mile from the railway.  The house
was small, but very neat in appearance, and the door-knocker, which was
of highly polished brass, gave a loud tapping sound into the hall.
There was no sign of the "Turbot."

A servant of considerable age answered my knock, and when I asked her if
Miss Mason was at home, she replied that she was.  She told me to walk
in, which I did.  I then gave her Dr. Dunston’s card, and was shown into
a neat drawing-room, which had a piano in it, and a pile of khaki wool
on a sofa.  There was also an illustrated newspaper in the room, and I
sat down on a chair and read the illustrated newspaper until Miss Mason
arrived.

Presently she came, and proved younger than her servant, though still
not in reality young.  She was unlike Bradwell in every way.  Even her
eyes did not resemble his, being black and small--you might say
beady--and her mouth had thin lips, which revealed lustrous teeth, which
might have been false ones, though, on the other hand, they might not.

"Curiously enough," she said, "I was just writing a letter to Dr.
Dunston when you arrived. Now I can send a message by you instead.  Are
you his son?"

"No, Miss Mason," I answered.  "I am Travers, the head boy at Merivale
School."

"How interesting!" she said.  "And what are you going to do in the
world, Travers?"

"I leave next term--this is my last term, in fact--and I am then going
to try for Woolwich," I said.

"That means the Army, of course," she answered. "I hope you will pass
well."

I then thanked her for this kind wish, and said I hoped so, too.

"Owing to the War," I explained, "there is no very great difficulty in
passing into Woolwich at present, and I hope to get on quickly, and take
my place in the fighting-line before the War is over."

She approved of this.

"Quite right," she said.  "I never wanted to be a man before the War,
but I do now."

She spoke in a very martial and sporting way, and rang for tea.

This was good of its kind, and when I had eaten pretty well everything,
after handing her each dish first, she asked me if I would like an egg,
and, of course, I said I would.  Then she ordered the old servant to
boil two eggs; and the old servant did so, and I ate them both.  We
talked of the War, and, funnily enough, I quite forgot all about the
"Turbot" till a clock chimed on the mantelshelf the hour of five.

This, as it were, reminded me of my mission.

"I must soon go back to the station," I said, "so perhaps you will now
be so kind as to tell me about ’Turbot.’"

"And who is ’Turbot’?" she asked.

So I had to explain that we were all called fish, owing to a silly joke,
and I also hoped that she would not think that I meant anything rude to
her nephew by mentioning him in that way.  She was not in the least
annoyed, and said:

"Ralph came to me on Saturday, and he left me on Sunday morning."

"Do you know where he has gone?" I asked.

And she said: "I haven’t the slightest idea where he has gone, Travers."

"That’s very serious," I said, "because your nephew’s guardian hasn’t
the slightest idea, either."

Her lips tightened over her dazzling teeth at the mention of the
guardian, and I could see she didn’t like him.  She spoke in a sneering
sort of voice and said:

"Ah!  Really?"

Then, feeling there was nothing more to discuss, I got up and cleared.

"Let me know if anything transpires," she said, and not happening to
remember exactly what "transpire" meant, I merely said that no doubt the
Doctor would tell her all that might happen in the future about
Bradwell.

She shook hands in a kindly manner and saw me to the gate.  And such was
her friendly spirit that she picked a small blue flower and gave it to
me to wear.

"Put it in your buttonhole," she said, which I did do until I was out of
sight, and could chuck it away without hurting her feelings.

The Doctor didn’t seem to like what I had to say, and evidently thought
I hadn’t got it right.

"His aunt appears as callous as his guardian," said the Doctor.  "I am
to understand that he went out on Sunday morning and did not return, and
that Miss Mason has not the slightest idea where he has gone to?"

"That’s what she made me understand, sir," I said.

"I fail to credit it," answered the Doctor.  Then he dismissed me,
rather slightingly, and sent for Brown, who always does the detective
business at Merivale.

There was a good deal of quiet excitement about it, and, of course, we
all thought "Turbot" would be run to earth in a few hours, or days, at
most. But he never was; and though the police looked into the matter,
and hunted far and wide, they never even got a clue, because apparently
there wasn’t one to get.  In fact, "Turbot" vanished off the face of the
earth as far as Merivale was concerned; and it was a nine days’ wonder,
as the saying is, and no light was ever thrown upon it till long
afterwards.  The aunt was cross-examined by the police; but she knew
nothing, and cared less, as Brown said, for he cross-examined her also.
All she could say was that "Turbot" had gone out early, and not come
home in time for church, as she naturally expected a boy brought up at
Merivale to do.  Which was one in the eye for Merivale.  As for the
guardian, he offered a reward of ten pounds for the recovery of
"Turbot," and no more, which showed the market value of "Turbot" in that
guardian’s opinion.

The only person who really worried was the Doctor, and I believe he
didn’t leave a stone unturned to rout up "Turbot."  But all in vain. He
had entirely disappeared, and being so ordinary in appearance, without
any distinguishing marks, he simply "vanished into the void," as Tracey
said, and we sold his cricket bat at auction, and one or two other
things of slight value which we found in his school locker.  But a
portrait of his mother we did not sell, and I gave it to the Doctor, who
sent it to the aunt, who was much obliged for it, and wrote to old
Dunston with great thanks, and said she would keep it until the happy
day when "Turbot" turned up out of the void again.  And that, I believe,
made the Doctor more suspicious than ever, for he always believed that
Miss Mason knew more about the "Turbot" than she pretended.  In fact, he
told Mr. Fortescue that she was prevaricating, and Fortescue said it
looked as though she might be.  As a matter of fact, Fortescue had his
own theory about "Turbot," and though he never told anybody what it was
till afterwards, then he told everybody because he proved to be
perfectly right.

This was that Fortescue, who wrote such splendid War poetry, but was
prevented from enlisting unfortunately by an illness of the aorta, which
is part of the heart, and, when enlarged, is fearfully dangerous.  But
while he taught at Merivale, his soul was entirely in the War, and in
his spare time he did good work, chiefly at the Red Cross Hospital in
the town, where fifty wounded men were always on hand.  When they got
well, they went and others came; and sometimes, when the War slacked
off, the numbers sank to thirty-two, or even thirty, and then, when it
burst out more fiercely, they quickly rose to fifty again.

Milly Dunston was one of the workers there, but only for swank and the
sake of the uniform.  I believe she peeled onions and shelled peas, and
cut up meat and so on in the kitchen; and sometimes she was allowed to
go and see the wounded; but I never heard that they cared much for her
until they knew she worked in the kitchen.  Then they took interest in
her, because she could tell them what they were going to have for supper
that night, and what they were going to have for dinner next day, which,
naturally, are things very important to the mind of a wounded hero.

Mr. Fortescue was well liked at the hospital, and took many cigarettes
there, also books suited to the Tommies, and he got to be so popular
that there was a fair fight for him; and if he favoured one ward, and
didn’t go into the other for half the time, the other ward got vexed
about it, for Tommy has a jealous nature in some ways, though so heroic
in the field.

Then there came rather a bad cot case called Ted Marmaduke, and as soon
as he arrived, he sent a special message to the school for me and for
Fortescue; and Fortescue went to see him.

Of course, this happened long after I had left Merivale, and it was, in
fact, my brother who wrote to me about it; for after six months at
Woolwich, owing to luck and the War, and so on, I got a commission in
the Royal Engineers, and went to France.  And there I heard from Travers
minor about the chap who wanted to see Fortescue.  He had been wounded
in the cheek and also in the leg, and his face was almost hidden; but
his eyes were all right, and what was Fortescue’s amazement to see the
eyes of Ted Marmaduke goggle in the old familiar way the moment he came
to his bedside. For there lay the "Turbot," and fearing that he was
going to die, he had determined to tell somebody the truth, and not die
anonymously, so to speak.  And when he found he was at Merivale, of all
places, naturally he thought of Fortescue and me.  But I was gone to do
my bit, so Fortescue went, and heard the true story of the wily
"Turbot."

He could only tell it in pieces, because it hurt him awfully to talk,
and, in fact, he wasn’t allowed to talk much at a time.  But what
happened was this.  He had gone to the aunt for his birthday, and told
her in secret that he hated Merivale worse than ever, and was ashamed to
be there, with a moustache and everything; and she was a very martial
and fine woman, and entirely agreed with him.  She had told him that he
was just the sort they wanted in the Army, and that though he could not
distinguish himself at school, that was nothing at such a time, and she
felt positive that he would jolly soon distinguish himself in the Army,
and do things at the Front that would make Merivale fairly squirm to
remember how it had treated him.  And such was the aunt’s warlike
instinct that when he reminded her he was only seventeen, she scorned
him for remembering it.  "Go to the recruiting people," she said, "on
your seventeenth birthday, which is to-morrow, and when they ask you how
old you are, say you’ll be eighteen on your next birthday, which will be
true."  And he gladly did so.  But the aunt was fearfully crafty as well
as warlike, for when "Turbot" decided to go off and enlist at Plymouth
under his own name, she pointed out that he would instantly be traced by
Dr. Dunston, and ignominiously dragged back out of the Army to Merivale.
So she advised him to take a train to the North of England, and enlist
up there, which he did do.  And he changed his name to Ted Marmaduke,
and the enlisting people in the North never smelt a rat, and were quite
agreeable to take him when he said he would be eighteen next birthday.
And such was the fine strategy of the aunt that she expressly made
"Turbot" promise not to write a line to her till he was under orders for
the Front.  Therefore, when she was asked if she knew where he was, she
could honestly say she didn’t.

Of course, long before he came back wounded, he was entirely forgotten
at Merivale, and when Fortescue discovered him in our Red Cross
Hospital, and then confessed that he had always believed this was what
"Turbot" had really done, the excitement became great, and many of the
chaps asked to be allowed to go and see him, and some were allowed to do
so.

But it was not till the "Turbot" had recovered, and was going back to
fight, that Dr. Dunston forgave him; and he never forgave the aunt.

Yet that amazing aunt was more than a fine strategist; she was a prophet
also, for Fortescue found out in the papers that Ted Marmaduke, of the
3rd Yorkshires, was promoted a sergeant, and had won the D.C.M. for
splendid bravery in Gallipoli, just as his aunt had always prophesied he
would.  Of course, she came to see him at the hospital, but she didn’t
come to Merivale.

When he got nearly right, the old "Turbot" took tea at Merivale, and the
Doctor let the past bury the past, as they say, and made a speech, and
hoped that the chaps would follow "Turbot’s" lead in certain directions,
though not in all.  But privately to the "Turbot" he said more than
this. In fact, he dug up the past again, and reminded "Turbot" that he
should not do evil that good may come.

And "Turbot" quite saw this, and said he never would again.

Then he went back to the wars once more, and had good luck, I’m glad to
say, and before he’d been a soldier eighteen months, he got his
commission.  For though such a mug at school, the military instinct was
in him all the time, and the War naturally brought it out.  When he
became Lieutenant Bradwell, his guardian tried to make friends again;
but he scorned him, as well he might, though no doubt he will always be
friendly with his crafty aunt, for you may say that he owed pretty well
everything to her masterly mind.




                       CORNWALLIS AND ME AND FATE


Dr. Dunston was always awfully great on the classic idea of Fate.  He
made millions of efforts to make us understand it, but failed.  Blades
said he understood it, and so did Abbott, and, of course, the Sixth said
they did.  But they always pretend to understand everything, including
the War. Fate is the same as Greek tragedy, and a very difficult subject
indeed.

Anyway, Cornwallis and me couldn’t understand Fate, or how it worked
exactly, until that far-famous whole holiday and the remarkable
adventure which made Cornwallis and me blaze out into great fame, though
only for a short while.  As long as it lasted, however, the fame was
wonderful; for the sudden, curious result of being somebody, after you
have for many years been nobody, not only leaves its mark on your own
character, but quite changes the opinion of other people about you, and
also the way they behave to you. Enemies slack off and even offer to
become friends, and people who have been your friends when you were
nobody, redouble in their affection, and even get a sort of feeble fame
themselves, owing to being able to approach you as a matter of course
and not as a favour.

All this happened to Cornwallis and me; and though fame is said to have
a very bad effect on some people, and make them get above themselves,
like the Germans and Austrians, for instance, in our case, though
dazzling in its way, the fame died out almost as quickly as it sprang
up.  In fact, to show you what people are, and what envy may do, just as
Cornwallis and me began to sink back into our usual obscurity in the
Lower Third, some beasts, such as Pegram and the master, Brown, said in
public that the whole excitement was a mild attack of hysteria and utter
footle, and that neither Cornwallis nor me had done anything but make
little asses of ourselves, and that it was all pure luck and not fame at
all.

But, anyway, the adventure did this for Cornwallis and also for me--it
explained what the Doctor really meant by Fate; and afterwards we were
always tremendously keen about Fate, and spoke well of it, though
before, it had, if anything, rather bored us, because, at the age of
ten, your fate is generally so far off.  Until the great adventure I
can’t honestly say I had seen Fate bothering about Cornwallis, and he
had never seen it bothering in the least about me; but afterwards,
having, as you may say, got thoroughly to understand its ways, and its
special interest in us on a very important occasion--in fact, what you
might call a matter of life and death--we always felt a sharp interest
in it, and often noticed little marks of Fate at work both in school and
out--sometimes for us and sometimes for other people.  Not, of course,
always for us, because, as Cornwallis said, and I agreed, we weren’t
everybody, and when it came to prizes and getting into "elevens," and
other advantages, Fate undoubtedly favoured various chaps far more than
us.  But as I pointed out to Cornwallis, after saving our lives in a
very ingenious and unexpected way, no doubt it had done enough for us
for some years, and intended to give us a rest.  We both saw the
fairness of this, and did not complain in the least at our rather bad
failures in the Lower Third afterwards.  But, curiously enough, Dr.
Dunston, though so well up in Greek tragedy and the ways of Fate as a
rule, missed this, and said our reports were a scandal and a source of
the utmost discomfort to him, and far from showing our gratitude to Fate
as we ought to have shown it after the terrible affair of "Foster Day."

"Foster Day" was an important day at Merivale. It arose from the mists
of antiquity, as they say, because among the first pupils old Dunston
ever had, when he started Merivale, was a chap called Foster.  He was
very rich, and his father lived at Daleham, on the sea coast, and had a
mansion and thousands of acres of land running down to the sea.  This
Foster seems to have liked the Doctor, and been a great success at
Merivale; and his rich father evidently liked the Doctor, too, and so,
when young Foster had the bad luck to fall for his country in the Boer
War, the rich father Foster built a beautiful and precious chapel to his
memory at Daleham, and had his soldier son carved in pure marble and put
in the chapel.  It was known as a memorial chapel, and simply couldn’t
be beaten in its way.  And, not content with doing this, the rich father
arranged with Dunston that fifty boys from Merivale should once every
year come to a service in this chapel, and, after the service was over,
be entertained in his grounds and on the sea-shore with games and
luscious foods. The Doctor fell in with this excellent plan readily, and
now for some years, on the seventh day of July, which was the day the
splendid young soldier Foster had fallen, fifty chaps from Merivale
drove over in brakes to Daleham and attended the memorial service, and
sang a hymn, and afterwards enjoyed themselves in the spacious grounds
and on the beach.  For though not actually belonging to the rich old
Foster, the beach finished off his estates, and so he had a special sort
of right to it, and had built a boat-house, where he kept a steam launch
and other vessels.

The day came round as usual, and, by rather exceptional luck, Cornwallis
and myself got into the fifty, for nobody was barred, and it was always
arranged that a certain number of chaps from the lower school should
join the giddy throng.  So we went in white flannels and the school
blazers, little knowing what lay before us.

The day was slightly clouded by the fact that Brown was the master who
took us, for Brown loves to display his power before strangers, and make
us look as small as possible in order that he may shine.  But the great
Mr. Foster--though what he had done that was great I don’t know--saw
through Brown with ease, and told him we must do what we liked, and have
a good time in every way--not, in fact, hampered by Brown.

After the service in the chapel, where some good singing was done by us,
and a clergyman preached a rather longish sermon on duty and so on, the
solemn business of the day began, and we had an ample meal.  When I tell
you that there were enough raspberries and cream for all, I need add no
more.  If all those raspberries had been put in one pile, we should have
had "no small part of a mountain," as Virgil so truly says.

The great thing after dinner was to go and bathe and ramble on the
shore.  This was the time that Brown could be most easily escaped, and
as he had to keep his attention on the chaps who went swimming, those
who did not were able to enjoy themselves in various interesting ways.

The tide was out, and, by a little dodging behind rocks, Cornwallis and
me, who did not bathe, were able gradually, as it were, to slip out of
the danger zone; which we did do.  A magnificent and interesting beach
spread out before us, and we decided to explore it.  So we retreated
fast for some distance till a cliff jutted out and entirely concealed
us, and then we went slower and explored as we went.  Cornwallis had a
watch, and as there was no serious work on hand till tea at five
o’clock, we had more than two hours.

We did some natural history, and found small pools full of marine
wonders, such as sea anemones and blenny fish, which in skilled hands
can be made as tame as white mice, and can live out of the sea between
tides.  We also collected shells, and, much to my amusement, I collected
one shell which I thought was empty, until I felt a gentle crawling in
my trousers pocket, and discovered that a hermit crab lived in the
shell, and was frantically trying to escape.  This, of course, I allowed
him to do, and no doubt he is puzzling to this day about what happened
to upset his usual life.

On we went, and then the beach got narrower, and I said it was natural,
but Cornwallis thought not.  He thought the tide was coming in, which
would account for the increasing narrowness of the beach.

I said:

"In that case, Cornwallis, we had better go back, because you can see,
by the marks on the cliffs, that the tide will come here in large
quantities, and, in fact, the water will be jolly deep."

And Cornwallis said he supposed it would.  The time also was getting on,
and we found it was past four.  But, of course, we meant getting back
fast, with an occasional run, and had allowed half the time to get back
that we allowed to go out.

We were just turning, after going a few hundred yards farther, when a
most interesting thing appeared.  The cliffs hung over rather, and were
made of red sandstone, and very steep; but ahead of us was a ledge of
rock half-way up the cliff, and on it a mysterious little house made of
bits of old boat and painted with tar.  It was extraordinary to see such
a thing in such a lonely spot, and Cornwallis, who is rather suspicious,
owing to the War and being a Boy Scout, wondered if it was all right.
Because, if you are once a Boy Scout, as Travers minor pointed out, you
are always a Boy Scout, and though you may not be scouting in a
professional sort of way, yet, if anything peculiar happens, or you get
a chance of doing good to the country, you must instantly look into it.

So Cornwallis decided to go and examine this queer shed, and I went with
him.  The door was open, but we saw no signs of life.  It was a solid
building made of heavy timbers, and there was a padlock on the door.
Inside was a pleasant smell of tar and cobbler’s wax and fish.  It
seemed to belong to a mariner of some sort; but, on the other hand, what
mariner could possibly want to make his house in such a weird spot?
There was no bed or washing basin or chest of drawers, to show that the
stranger lived here, but there were many interesting things, including a
lobster-pot, a telescope, and a large lantern of the sort used on board
ship.

I saw nothing peculiarly suspicious, but Cornwallis did.  From the first
he took rather a serious view of it, and when he found a green tin full
of petrol, his face went white, and he said it was Fate.

I said:

"What the dickens do you mean, Cornwallis?"

And he said:

"I mean, Towler, that this is the hiding-place of a German spy.  There’s
a telescope with which he picks up periscopes, and there’s a lamp, with
which he signals to the submarines by night, and there’s the petrol he
takes to them to replenish their tanks. And this shows the Doctor was
right: you can get Fate in real life as well as Greek tragedies."

And I said:

"But the prawn-nets and fishing-lines and corks and paint, and so on?"

And he said:

"These things are merely blinds to distract the eye from the others."

So I said:

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

And he said:

"I am going straight back, and after tea, or even before, I shall tell
the great Mr. Foster there is a pro-German traitor under his cliff, and
offer to show him the way to the spot."

"I’ll help," I said.  "But the thing is to be careful, and surprise the
spy at his work."

Just as I said these words, curiously enough, the spy surprised us, and
we found ourselves in a position that wanted enormous presence of mind.
Suddenly we heard the sound of heavy feet outside, and as there was only
one way up to the hut, it was clear we could not escape without being
seen.  And if seen, of course, our object was lost, for the spy would
make a bolt of it.

The question was where to hide, and, by the best possible luck, there
was a chance to do so.  A big tarpaulin hung on a nail on the side of
the hut, and it was of great size, and came nearly to the ground, while
at its feet was a seaman’s box. Owing to the fortunate smallness of
Cornwallis and me, there was ample room for concealment behind the
tarpaulin, and our feet were hidden by the box.  So we got behind it and
hardly dared to breathe, though, just before the traitor came in,
Cornwallis had time to whisper to me:

"If he’s come for his tarpaulin coat, we’re done for, and he’ll very
likely kill us!"

And I whispered to him:

"Be hopeful.  Fate may be on our side, and it’s not the weather for a
tarpaulin coat, anyway."

Then the spy came in, and though I was not able to see him, Cornwallis,
by a lucky chance, got a buttonhole of the coat level with his eye, and
saw the fearful spectacle of the spy.

He was a dreadful object, with wickedness fairly stamped on him, so
Cornwallis said afterwards. He was a big man with humpbacked shoulders
and a cocoanut-like head, far too small for his body and legs.  He was
grey, and had a shaggy beard and a wide mouth that showed his teeth.
These were broken and black.  His nose was flat and small, and his eyes
rolled in his head as he looked round his hut.  They were black and
ferocious to a most savage extent.  He kept making a snorting sound,
which was his manner of breathing.  He wore dirty white trousers and a
jersey, and upon his feet were dirty canvas shoes.  He had no hat, and
he didn’t look the sort of person that Fate would be interested in.  But
you never know.  He suspected nothing, and had not seen us come in,
which was the great fear in my mind.

The creature did not stop long, yet long enough to give himself away for
ever as a spy, for he took one of the green tins of petrol, and then,
saying some English swear words to himself of the worst kind, went out
and slammed the door behind him. We nearly shouted with joy, but a
moment later our joy was changed into the most terrible sorrow, because
the spy fastened the door behind him.  We heard a chain rattle and a
padlock click, so there we were, entirely at the mercy of a creature
evidently quite dead to pity in every way.  This was, of course, Fate
again, as Cornwallis pointed out.

There was a window about a foot square high up in the roof of the hut,
and when the spy shut the door and locked us in, everything became dark
excepting for the light from this narrow window. Therefore, when we were
sure our enemy had gone, and there was not a sound outside, I got on to
a table, and Cornwallis climbed on my back, from which he was able to
look out through the window. Luckily it faced the sea, and Cornwallis
reported that the sea had come a great deal nearer, and that the spy was
only about fifty yards off.  He stood on a sort of pier of rocks, and
was pulling in a rope to which was attached a small motor-boat.

Then naturally I wanted to get on Cornwallis’s shoulders, but he told me
not to move for a moment.  Then he said that the spy had got into the
boat and was evidently going to sea.  And then he said he had gone.

I next climbed on to Cornwallis, and so proved the truth of his words,
for I distinctly saw the motor-boat speed off with the spy in it.  I
also saw that the tide had come in, and soon it was actually beating
against the rocks twenty-five feet or so below us.

When the motor-boat had disappeared in a westerly direction, Cornwallis
and me got down off the table and considered what we ought to do.

"The first thing is to make every possible effort to escape at any
cost," I said.  But he said that he had already thought of that, and
felt pretty certain it was beyond our power.  The window seemed the only
hopeful place; but it was made not to open, and the glass was thick, and
Cornwallis said we couldn’t have got through the hole, even if there had
been no glass.  But I said:

"It is well known, Cornwallis, that if a man can get his head through a
hole, he can get his body through."

And he said:

"It isn’t well known at all.  You might because you have got a head like
a tadpole, but I couldn’t."

I said I was sure I had read it somewhere, but, anyway, it didn’t
matter.  We examined the hut thoroughly, and found it was only too well
and solidly made.  We were utter prisoners, in fact, and, owing to the
spy not knowing it, might very likely be left to die of starvation.  He
might even have gone to join a submarine, and never come back.

"Perhaps he does know we are here all the time," said Cornwallis.
"Perhaps he spotted us, and pretended he didn’t.  In that case he may
have locked us in deliberately to starve us, not caring to waste a shot
on us."

This thought depressed us a good deal, and presently the sun sank and
the light began to fade, and a seagull that settled outside on the roof
uttered a melancholy and doleful squawk.

Of course, we were far from despairing yet, and Cornwallis made a
cheerful remark, and reminded me that if we had eaten our last meal on
earth, at any rate it was a jolly good one.

And I said:

"There may be food concealed here, for that matter.  We’d better have a
good hunt, and look into every hole and corner before it is dark."

This we did without success.  There were many strange things there,
including pieces of wreckage, a bit of an old ship’s steering-wheel, and
a brass bell with a ship’s name on it; but there was nothing eatable
excepting some fish to bait a lobster-pot; and the fish hadn’t been
caught yesterday, and we had by no means reached the stage of exhaustion
in which we could regard it as food.

Cornwallis said:

"As a matter of fact, our great enemy will be thirst.  I am frightfully
thirsty already, for that matter."

And I said:

"So am I, now you mention it."

As the light died away, we held a sort of a council, and tried to decide
what exactly was our duty--to England firstly, and to ourselves
secondly. We talked a good deal, until our voices grew queer to
ourselves, and it all came back to the same simple fact--our duty was to
get out, and we couldn’t.

Then I had the best idea that had yet come to us.

I said:

"As we can’t get out, we must try and get somebody in the outer world to
let us out.  The only question is, shall we attract anybody but the spy
if we raise an alarm?"

Cornwallis said of course that was the question; but it didn’t matter,
because we couldn’t raise an alarm.

I said:

"If we howl steadily together once every sixty seconds by your watch,
like a minute-gun at sea, somebody is bound to hear sooner or later."

And he said:

"Far from it, Towler.  We shall only tire ourselves out, and get hungry,
as well as thirsty, for no good.  Our voices wouldn’t go any distance
through these solid walls, and, even if they did, we are evidently in a
frightfully lonely and secluded place, miles and miles from
civilization, else the spy wouldn’t have chosen it for his operations."

I admitted this, but we did try a yell or two. The result was feeble,
and I myself said that if any belated traveller heard it, he would only
murmur a prayer and cross himself, and hurry on, like they do in books.
Then Cornwallis decided to break the window.  He didn’t know why
exactly, but he felt he wanted to be up and doing in a sort of way.
Besides, it was beastly fuggy in the spy’s den; so we broke the window
with a boat-hook, and I got on the shoulders of Cornwallis and had a
good yell through it; but no answer came.

Then another idea struck me, and it was undoubtedly this idea that saved
the situation.  We got the old ship’s bell and hung it up on a rope as
near the window as possible, and hammered it with the boat-hook, taking
turns of five minutes each.

This created an immense volume of sound, and though, of course, it was
more--far more--likely to bring the spy back than anybody else, we had
now reached a pitch of despair, and would have even welcomed the spy in
a sort of way. Cornwallis from time to time still worried about our
duty, but I had long passed that, for it was nine o’clock.  So at last I
told him to shut up and hit the bell harder.

It was now quite dark, and from time to time heavy drops of rain fell
through the window.  The sea-going lamp would have been very useful now,
for we might have signalled with it; but though there was an oil-lamp in
it, we had no matches, and it was therefore useless.

Then, in a lull, when I was handing over the boat-hook to Cornwallis,
whose turn it was to hammer the bell, we distinctly heard the stealthy
sound of the motor-boat returning, and Cornwallis, mounting my
shoulders, and nearly breaking my neck in his excitement, reported a red
light below.

Then he heard several harsh voices.

Cornwallis said:

"We are now probably done for, Towler.  The spy has evidently been to a
submarine, and he’s heard the bell, and you can pretty easily guess what
submarine Germans will do to us.  In fact, our Fate is right bang off."

I said:

"Surely they wouldn’t kill two kids like us?"

And he said:

"Killing kids is their chief sport.  They can’t be too young--from
babies upward."

So it looked pretty putrid in every way, and it wouldn’t be true, and it
wouldn’t be believed, if I said Cornwallis and me weren’t in the funk of
our lives.

But the awful moments didn’t last long, for, almost before the padlock
was undone, what should we hear but the well known yelp of Brown!

Our first thought was that the crew of a German submarine had also got
Brown; but even in our present condition we felt that was too mad.  All
the same, when he actually appeared, with two other men and the spy, he
looked such a ghastly object, and was so white and wild, that it seemed
clear that he was in a mess of some kind.

What he said when we both appeared in the lantern light was:

"Thank God!"

For the first and last time in his life he was apparently glad to see
us.  But after this expression of joy, he instantly became beastly, and,
in fact, so much so, that a man behind him, who did not fear him, told
him not to talk so roughly to us at such a moment.

This man turned out to be no less a man than the great Mr. Foster
himself, and he explained to us that we had put everybody to frightful
anxiety and distress, and that, in fact, he had feared the worst.

This much surprised us, and what surprised us still more was Mr.
Foster’s attitude to the spy, for he called him "Joe," and treated him
in a most friendly manner.

We all went back to the motor-boat, and while it tore away to the
landing-place under Mr. Foster’s beach, we told our story.  During this
narrative, which was listened to very carefully, the man called Joe made
several remarks of a familiar nature, which showed he was not in the
least afraid of anybody, and we found out later that he was an old and
trusted servant of Mr. Foster’s, who lived at Daleham, and who managed
Mr. Foster’s motorboat, and caught lobsters for him and fish of many
kinds, and was, in fact, a sort of family friend of long standing.  It
was admitted, however, that Joe was very queer to look at, and also odd
in his ways.  This arose entirely from his peculiar Fate, because Fate
had had a dash at him too, and when a young man, he had once gone out
fishing, and returned to find that during his absence his wife had run
away for ever with another mariner.  This was such a surprise to him
that it had quite turned his head for a time, and, in fact, he had been
odd ever since.

Having told our tale, we ventured to ask why everybody had feared the
worst, and Mr. Foster explained the situation, and showed what a
splendid and remarkable bit of work Fate had really done for Cornwallis
and me.

He said:

"What did you intend to do when you left Joe’s hut?"

And I said:

"We were going to tear back along the beach, sir, and give the alarm,
because we thought he was a pro-German spy."

Joe gurgled at this, but did not condescend to answer.

"And do you know what would have happened in that case?" asked Mr.
Foster.

"You would have explained to us that we were on a false scent, sir,"
said Cornwallis.

"No, my child, I should not," answered Mr. Foster, "for the very good
reason that I should never have seen either of you again alive.  Nor
would anybody else.  If you had started to go back by the beach, you
would both have been overtaken by the tide and most certainly been
drowned."

"Crikey!" said Cornwallis under his breath to me.

"Yes," continued the good and great Mr. Foster, "if Joe here, quite
ignorant of the fact that you were trespassing in his store shed, had
not turned the key upon you both, you would neither of you be alive to
tell your story now."

Somehow we never thought we were trespassing, but doing our duty to
England.  It just shows how different a thing looks from different
points of view.

"You ought to be very thankful," said Mr. Foster, "and I hope this
terrible experience will leave its mark in your hearts, my boys.  You
have been spared a sad and untimely death, and I trust that the memory
of this night will help you both to justify your existence in time to
come."

We said we trusted it would.

Then Brown, of course, put in his oar.

"And if you had used your eyes, Towler and Cornwallis, as I have tried
so often to make you," he squeaked, "you would have seen a notice on the
cliff warning people not to go beyond a certain point, as the tides were
very dangerous."

"We were studying the wonders of Nature, sir," I answered, in rather a
sublime tone of voice, because this was no time for sitting on
Cornwallis and me.  And just then the motor-boat came to shore, and it
was found that we could catch the last train back to Daleham.  So we
caught it.  Of course, all the other chaps had gone back in the brakes
ages ago.

Mr. Foster blessed us, before the train started, in a very affectionate
and gentlemanly way; but Brown did not bless us on the journey back.  In
fact, he said that he should advise the Doctor to flog us.  We preserved
a dignified silence.  He couldn’t send a telegram on in advance, as the
office was shut, and therefore, when we arrived at Merivale, it was
rather triumphant in a way, and the news of our safe return created a
great sensation.  In the excitement, food for us was overlooked
entirely, until Cornwallis told the matron we had had nothing to eat
since dinner.  Food was then provided.  The Doctor said very little
until the following day, and then he told the whole story to the school
after morning prayers; and not until we heard it from him did we realize
what a good yarn it really was.

But nothing was done against us, much to Brown’s disappointment, and
from the way he hated Cornwallis and me afterwards, I believe he got
ragged in private for not keeping his eye on us.

We wrote a very sporting letter to Mr. Foster, and said we should not
forget his great kindness as long as we lived; and we also wrote home
and scared up ten pounds for Joe, because he had locked us up and saved
our lives.  It was an enormous lot of money, and far beyond what we
expected.  My father sent five, and the mother of Cornwallis also sent
five; and Cornwallis truly said it showed that my father and his mother
mast think much more highly of our lives than they had ever led us to
believe.

In fact, so excited was the mother of Cornwallis about it that she
couldn’t wait till the end of the term, but had to come and see him and
kiss him, and realize that he was still all there.  But my father waited
till the end of the term for me.

He is rather a hard sort of man, compared to such a man as Mr. Foster,
for instance; and when I did go home and explained all about what Fate
had done, he said he hoped that I would not give Fate cause to regret
it--at any rate, during the summer holidays.




                           FOR THE RED CROSS


Of course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our
trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in
general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the
wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.

Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory,
as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap’s credit, and he gets
a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly
put it, we weren’t so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter
irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston,
whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from
urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the
last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most
extraordinary success.

There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who
sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don’t think any one chap could
take the credit.  It was too big a thing for one chap’s mind, and you
might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it.  It
grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after
he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he
reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became
the wonderful thing it was.

The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross,
and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we
did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters
whatever.  A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were
overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power
whatever in the masters.  The only one who would have been any good in
that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of
great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift
that could lure a paying audience.  No doubt they might have tried, but,
as Tracey said, you couldn’t ask people to pay good money just for the
doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying.  So it was settled that as
there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the
school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported
this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but
Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself
in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a
backbone to the show.  What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone,
we didn’t ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the
people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen
before, was worth all the money, if not more.

Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help,
and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at
one time it rather looked as if it might not.

It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to
give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up,
and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations.
Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn’t have much football
that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody’s mind--so
much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the
Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing
would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.

So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them
not one of them should do anything if they didn’t buck up.

Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who
should not.  That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very
difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at
Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying
audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas,
strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on
appearing.  We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The
Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their
sons do something.  Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his
usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort,
because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would
doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.

So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant
of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We
also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a
thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster
Day, when by a fluke they weren’t drowned, and so possessed a passing
interest in Merivale.

The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many
times.  The first programme would have taken about three days to get
through, and Tracey said, as it wasn’t a Wagner Cycle, we’d better try
and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be
encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be
an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink
about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also.  And
if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against
the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the
first.

I am Thwaites, by the way, and, like Percy minor, I hope that I may go
on the stage some day, being much inclined to do so.  But his father is
a professional actor, and so he has a better chance than me, mine being
a Government official in London, who never goes to the theatre, always
being too tired to do anything after his day’s work.  I recite when I
get the chance, and have already acted several times; I also write
poems.  I did not push myself forward in the least, it was agreed, by a
sort of general understanding, except in the mind of Percy minor, that I
should play Shylock in the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice."
And Williams, who is pretty, and had many a time been rotted for his
girl-like eyes and eyelashes, now found that his hour had come, for he
was going to play Portia; and we hoped his beautiful appearance might
carry him through, though at rehearsal it was only too apparent his
acting would not.

The first part of the show was to end with the Shakespearean
impersonation; but this was not all, though, of course, the cream of the
night.  We had in the second half an original satire in one act written
by Tracey, and entitled "The White Feather."  This would be the
concluding item, and as we finally decided that we would have twelve
separate items, that left ten to find.

There were some obvious things, like Percy minimus, who had a ripping
voice, and was accustomed to singing both in and out of chapel.  So,
knowing he was considered class, we put him down for a song; and the
school glee singers were also rather well thought of, and we gave them
two items.  This only left seven performances, and after we had
subtracted most of the chaps who were going to perform in the plays,
there was still an immense amount of mixed ability to choose from.

Of course, Rice had to be in it, though, in his usual sporting way, he
said he could do nothing. But as he was the best boxer in the school,
and almost as good as a professional "fly" weight, we felt no show would
be complete without him, and it was arranged he should box three
exhibition rounds with Bassett.

As Briggs said, with people who pay money, you must give everybody
something they will like; and though the people who would come to see
Shakespeare acted might not be at all the same people who would come to
see Rice hammer Bassett, yet there it was--we didn’t want to disappoint
anybody, because the great thing with a successful entertainment is to
make everybody thoroughly feel that they have had their money’s worth,
as Mitchell pointed out.  He was going to take the money, and sit in the
box and give out the tickets.  He could have done other things, but
chose that himself, having great natural ability in everything of a
financial sort.  And as all the tickets were numbered, we felt it was
safe.  Besides, for the Red Cross, nobody would let his financial
ability lead him astray, so to speak.

Percy minor, the son of the famous professional actor, also wished to
play Shylock, but was put down for a comic song--an art in which he
excelled.  And Tracey wanted to write it for him and make it topical;
but we knew Tracey’s satire, and felt it would not do.  Besides, he’d
already written a whole play, as it was, and was performing the chief
part in it, so we let Percy minor choose his own song, and he chose one
of Albert Chevalier’s, which blended pathos and humour in a very
wonderful way, but was difficult.  This left five items, and it seemed
almost a shame to leave out so much talent; but we finally decided on
Abbott for a conjuring entertainment--him being a flyer at that art--and
on Nicholas, who has the great gift of lightning calculation, though,
strange to say, a fool in everything else.  He stands with his back to a
blackboard, and can divide or add in his head; and if you read him out
ten figures, and then ten more to subtract from them, he can do it in a
moment.  And no doubt he will make his living in this way, though it is
a science that is utterly useless in the world at large.

Allowing for Cornwallis and Towler, there were only two items left, and
I had the good luck to remember there was, so far, nothing about the Red
Cross in the whole show; so we asked Fortescue if he would allow a
recitation of his famous poem on that subject, and he consented if he
was allowed to coach the boy who did it.  We gladly agreed to this, and
Forrester was decided upon for the boy, though he would rather have
given his well known and remarkable imitations of natural sounds, such
as a cock crowing, or a bottle of ginger beer popping, or a man with a
cold in his head, or a distant military band.  It was decided,
therefore, that if Forrester got an encore, he might give the
imitations; but he didn’t, so they were unfortunately lost, though many
a paying audience would have liked them better than the recitation,
splendid as it was.

For the last item of all it was almost impossible to choose between
about ten chaps, and at last, after voting in secret several times, the
Sixth got it down to young Hastings, who could play the fiddle in a
manner seldom heard from a kid of nine years old, and Weston, who was
prepared to black his face and play his banjo.  Finally we decided for
Weston, because he was the eldest, and would be leaving next term but
one, whereas Hastings, being only nine, was bound to have many future
chances of appearing with his fiddle.

So that was the programme, and even when drawn out and written down, it
was pretty staggering, but when actually printed in regular programme
form, it was wonderful, and for my part I didn’t see how the big
schoolroom would hold half the people who were bound to come.  In fact,
I suggested giving two, or even three, performances on consecutive
nights, but this was not approved of.

Being, as you may say, historical, I will here insert the programme.
The price was threepence, or what you liked to give above that sum.
Many gave more; some got copies for nothing, owing to the programme kids
losing their heads about change.  It appeared in this way on pink paper,
faintly scented, and nothing was charged for the scenting by the
printers, so I suppose the scent was their contribution to the Red Cross
Fund.


                           FOR THE RED CROSS

On the seventeenth day of December next, by kind permission of Dr.
Dunston, the scholars of Merivale will give the following entertainment
in the Great Hall of Merivale School at 7.30 p.m.  Doors open at seven
o’clock.  But reserved seats may be booked, and a plan of the room seen
at Messrs. Tomson’s, No. 4, High Street, Merivale.

                             THE PROGRAMME

1.  Song by Percy Minimus (son of the world-famous actor, Thomas Percy).

2.  Conjuring by Abbott (using live rabbits, live goldfish, etc.).

3.  Three Rounds of Exhibition Boxing by Rice (Fly-weight Champion) and
Bassett.  N.B.--The rounds will be of two minutes’ duration.

4.  Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

5.  Recitation, "The Cross of Red."  Words (published in "The Times"
newspaper) by Mr. Fortescue of Merivale School.  Reciter, Forrester.

6.  The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," by William
Shakespeare.  Dramatis Personæ as follows:

Shylock.     Thwaites.
The Duke.    Pegram.
Antonio.     Saunders.
Bassanio.    Preston.
Gratiano.    Percy Minor.
Salerio.     Travers Minor.
Nerissa.     Percy Minimus.
Portia.      Williams.

                              Magnificoes.
           Tudor, Forbes Minimus, Hastings, and five others.
                  Scene: Venice.  A Court of Justice.

        N.B.--The scene will conclude with the exit of Shylock.

                     _An Interval of Ten Minutes._


                                PART II

7.  Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

                   ("The Three Chafers," by request.)

8.  Comic Song.  Percy Minor (son of the great actor, Thomas Percy).

9.  Lightning calculation.  Nicholas (introduced by Thwaites. Must be
seen to be believed).

10.  Coon Interlude with Banjo.  Weston.

11.  Duet.  Towler and Cornwallis (both nearly drowned last summer on
Foster Day).

12.  A Satire in One Act by Tracey, entitled "The White Feather."

Dramatis Personæ.

Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C.    Tracey.
General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B.        Blades.
A Policeman.                                  Briggs.
Miss Sophia Flapperkin.                       Williams.

Scene: Trafalgar Square.  Time: The Present.

                          _GOD SAVE THE KING._
                       Booking Office: Mitchell.


Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half
a crown, there didn’t seem much chance of anybody not getting their
money’s worth.

I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very
difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many
suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the
imagination, because we couldn’t get within miles of a court in Venice,
and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question.  And Percy minor
said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied
less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back
to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain;
and if people didn’t like it, they could do the other thing.  So we went
back to Elizabethan times.  But we had a professional man from Plymouth
to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were
rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night.  Seen
close, you’re awful, but, of course, it’s all right from the front.

The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for
without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or
two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision.  But
they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine
was too long to the last.  However, nobody noticed, though naturally
they did notice when Antonio’s beard carried away, and it spoilt the
pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any
decent chaps would have.

Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went
off at Tomson’s, and they weren’t gone in a moment, by any means. You
could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and
people put off their booking a good deal.  But when the programme was
out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day.  It was
rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to
go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going.
Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in
the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five.  This news,
we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might
have had them for nothing, which was true.  The masters all took
half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown
why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To
applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we
can."  As a matter of fact, we didn’t want their wretched applause when
the time came, for we got plenty without it.

The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black,
from next door.  He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us,
and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay
instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything;
yet there he was.  He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from
first to last, and he never clapped once.  Yet, extraordinary to say,
the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old
Black, though the amazing affair didn’t come out till next morning.

Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear
thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring
it up to thirty-six.  From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost
of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost
of the programmes and the piano man.  It looked as if we should be good
for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.

Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came
and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed.  In
fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in
Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and
the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore,
after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had
taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and
most did not hide their surprise.

A reporter came from _The Merivale Trumpet_ and Mitchell saw that he had
plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by
reporters, and much depends on it.  He ate and drank well, so we
naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a
most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to
Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.

The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items,
and be perfectly fair about it.  I won’t pretend everything went off as
well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn’t come off at all; but, on
the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting.
And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you
expected, it’s better than if he doesn’t laugh at all.  Besides, we had
to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn’t like a free
show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be.  Because,
when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings;
and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh
in the wrong places, there’s no law against it, and the performers must
jolly well stick it as best they can.

Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was
excellent.  In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not
happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which
Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and
dashed on to the platform.  So when the audience expected Percy back,
instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown
behind.  It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to
conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit.
Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring
Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott
appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by
appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his
assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged
upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is
a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would
have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so
to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an
appearance of great ease, but he couldn’t manage his voice, and he
forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping
secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his
confusion.  The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made
him worse.  I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.

He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about
with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen
contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation
flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did
do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts.  This
fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit
out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it
in first.  It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things
under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who
had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and
defied concealment, so to say.  However, Abbott got a lot of trick
flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the
hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do
this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of
way.  He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with
white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed
off safely for the goldfish.  Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and,
thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried
to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done.
But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards,
got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully
entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal
amused to see it.

Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves.
A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by
the chairs.  It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back
appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped
Bassett’s ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience
gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams.  It was nothing, but
evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped
the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure.
Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but
we had to think of Rice’s feelings, and we also knew that scores of
countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like
in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless
exhibition bout that wouldn’t have shaken a flea.  But it was so, and
consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they
warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered.
Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all
making up for the great Trial Scene.

Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue’s fine poem, but nothing
special.  As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the
best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was
powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.

Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very
smoothly till just the end.  Of course, I can’t say anything about my
rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn’t feel I had gripped the audience
in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and
nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience
thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all.  Pegram rather
overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and
no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once
or twice.  In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a
very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy
minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so
jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the
dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed.  It was a new reading, in a
way, but I didn’t mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after
that the audience wouldn’t take me seriously, though before, I believe,
most of them had.  It spoiled the illusion of the scene.  Portia, in the
hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of
view, awful.  He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before
my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw
him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and
said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!"  Of course, after that, my exit went
for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes,
while in front people were laughing themselves silly.  We got two calls,
and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second
half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things
as Percy minor’s comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were
mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive
and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn’t even
tempt many men to come away from the refreshments.  I dare say many of
them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations
themselves, owing to the War, that they weren’t specially interested in
what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey’s play they all came, and such
applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that
the drama still holds its own.  The idea of "The White Feather" was
certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl
with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by
Minnie Dunston.  This was too small in some places and too big in
others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair,
Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a
creature.  He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from
Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he
manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the
flapper’s expense, and every point he made went with a roar.  Then the
flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir
Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a
frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman.  She cried and
begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the
General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.

The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to
nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King"
when all was over.  For though a professional, and well used to
entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.

Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the
immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing
happen with old Black.  He looked over the playground wall just before
dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something,
and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a
football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?"  And I said I was.

Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."

My first thought was--what had I done?  But as I hadn’t had any row with
old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he
took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing
on it.

"What’s this, sir?" I asked.

"A cheque for the Red Cross," he answered. "A cheque for twenty guineas,
to add to the money from your performance last night."

He was scowling all the time, mind you, and looking as if he hated the
show.

"I’m sure it’s very sporting of you, sir," I said to old Black.

"Not in the least," he replied.  "I laughed more last night than I have
laughed for fifty years. And I only paid half a crown--much too little
for what I got."

I was fearfully amazed.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I didn’t see you laugh once!’

"No," he answered, "and more did anyone else. When I laugh, I laugh
inside, boy, not outside. So do most wise men.  Now be off; and when you
next play Shylock, let me know.  If I’m alive, I’ll come."

So I went, and we cheered old Black from the playground.  He must have
heard us, but he didn’t show up.

Certainly, taking one thing with another, there are many extraordinary
people in the world, and you may be surprised at any moment.  No doubt
it was one of those cases of coming to scoff and remaining to pray that
you hear about, but don’t often actually see.




                          THE LAST OF MITCHELL


There is a great deal of difference between being expelled and "invited
to find another sphere for your activities."  In fact, as my father
said, if Dr. Dunston had expelled me, he would certainly have made a row
about it, and very likely have written to the newspapers.

But old Dunston was a jolly sight too wily for that.  He wrote to my
father when the event happened, and said that circumstances had come to
his ears which made him think, etc., etc., that I had better leave
Merivale.

I am Mitchell, and my father is a financier, and I may say that this
profession embraces a great many branches.

Sometimes, after dinner in holidays, he has allowed me to stop and smoke
a cigarette while he talked to friends, and so I have got a gradual
inkling of what it means to be a financier; and, in a way, this inkling
was my downfall.  Not that I felt it a downfall really to be hoofed out
of Merivale; for it was rather a potty sort of show, and I should have
gone to a far more swagger place if my father had been flusher just at
the time when I had to go somewhere, owing to a trifling bother at
another school.

But I went to Merivale, and just because I tried to take advantage of
what my father had said about finance and apply it to school life, the
difficulties arose.

I gathered off and on from my father, when he was in a talkative frame
of mind, that one of the great arts of a financier is to do deals
between other people.

For instance, you have something to sell, and my father knows it.  And
he routs about and leaves no stone unturned, as they say, until he finds
somebody who wants to buy just what you want to sell. Then, having found
you a customer, my father arranges all the details of the business, and
everybody is satisfied, and my father, for all his time and trouble,
gets richly rewarded.

Then, again, another fine branch of the financier’s art is the floating
of public companies.  To float a company requires great skill and nerve.

The first thing is to find a place a long way off, far beyond the reach
of intending shareholders, in fact.  Then you discover this far-off
country is extraordinarily rich in minerals, or india-rubber, or manure,
or some other useful material which everybody wants.  You send out a
mineral or manure expert to the far-off country, and he is delighted to
find these things in enormous quantities, and sees at a glance that, if
properly managed, they will produce dividends of very likely a hundred
per cent. for the first year, and much more afterwards.

Then my father, or whoever it might be, is glad, and he goes about to
other skilful men who understand companies, and they collect together
and make a board.  The more famous financiers there are upon this board
the better the public likes it; and so the company is floated, and the
public is invited to put in money.

This the public is only too thankful to do, because, of course, the
thing promises so well; and then the shares are quoted on the Stock
Exchange, and the papers are suddenly full of the company some morning,
and the board sits and has a champagne luncheon and arranges its
salaries and so on.

Of course, the people who have found that happy, far-away land, flowing
with minerals and manure and such like, are richly rewarded, as they
deserve to be; and sometimes they take it in money and sometimes in
shares, and sometimes in both.

And all may or may not go well; but the financier, whose business it is
to do these things and float the company, takes care to come out of it
all right in any case--otherwise it is no good being a financier.

There was once a very fine company floated by my father and several of
his scientific friends, for extracting gold from salt water.

It was based on thoroughly sound principles; because science has proved
that there is so much gold in every ton of salt water; and, of course,
if it is there, it can be extracted by modern inventions.  So my father
and others of even greater renown were filled with the idea of promoting
a company to do this.

It was a brilliant and successful company in a way, but did not last
long for some reason.

They started at a place near Margate, I think, with pumps and tubes to
draw in the water, and machinery and professional chemists to get the
gold out of it, and a staff of twenty skilled men, who understood the
complicated mechanism.  And they easily got enough gold from somewhere
to make the prospectus, and also enough to make a brooch for the
manager’s wife; and no doubt they would have got much more in course of
time, but something failed--the water in the English Channel was a bit
off, or some other natural cause--and my father said it would have been
far better for everybody concerned if the works had been put up in the
Isle of Skye, or perhaps in Norway, or in the West Indies, or the Fiji
Islands, where conditions might have been better suited to success.

But gold was none the less made for my father and one or two others,
"though not from the sea," as my father said thoughtfully when
discussing the winding up of the affair.

There is another and even higher branch of the financier’s art--the
loftiest of all in fact.  This consists in floating loans for hard-up
monarchs, and it is absolutely the biggest thing the financier does.  It
wants great skill and delicacy.

You can also float loans for hard-up nations if you understand how to do
it, but there are hundreds of financiers who never reach these dizzy
heights of the profession, just as there are hundreds--you may say
millions--of soldiers who never get above being colonels, and thousands
of clergymen who fall short of becoming bishops.

My father, of course, understood these high branches of his profession,
and once even went so far as to be interested in a loan for a South
American Republic; but before the thing was matured, one side of the
Republic was destroyed by a volcano and the other side by insurgents,
who shot the President and all his best friends; and these events so
shook investors in general that they would not subscribe to that loan,
though the Republic, in its financial extremities, offered fabulous
rates of interest.

I mention my father at such great length just to show the man he was and
to explain my own bent of mind, which lay in the same direction.  He
said once, in a genial mood, that no man had ever made more bricks
without straw than he had.  It seemed to me a very dignified and
original profession, because you are on your own, so to say, and you go
out into the world single-handed, and by simple force of a brilliant
imagination and hard work, win to yourself an honourable position. You
may even get knighted or baroneted, if your financial genius is crowned
with sufficient success to give away a few tons of money to a hospital,
or the "party chest," whatever that is.

So, understanding all these things fairly well, it was natural that I
took the line I did in the affair of Protheroe minimus and young Mayne.
And, whatever the Doctor thought, my father didn’t see any objection to
the operation; and, of course, his opinion was the only one I cared
about.

It was like this.

Young Mayne, though very poor, had a most amazing knack of
prize-winning.  He was in a class where all the chaps were a year older
than him, and yet he always beat them with the greatest ease.  He was
good all round, and thought nothing of raking in prizes term after term.

In fact, it seemed a thousand pities, seeing that he was very poor and
the only son of a lawyer’s clerk, that his great prize-winning powers
were not yielding a better return.  For, not to put too fine a point
upon it, as they say, the prizes at Merivale were piffle of the deepest
dye, and of no money value worth mentioning.  Dr. Dunston went on
getting the same books term after term, and simply unreadable slush was
all you could call them.

The few things that were good were all back numbers, like "Robinson
Crusoe"--all right in themselves, but nobody wants to read them twice;
and then there were school stories that would have made angels weep,
especially one called "St. Winifred’s," in which boys behaved like girls
and blushed if anybody said something dashing. Then there were books
about birds and animals and insects, and for the Lower School the Doctor
used to sink to "Peter Parley" and the "Peep of Day," and such-like
absolute mess of a bygone age.

These things were all bound in blue leather and had a gold owl stamped
upon them, which was the badge of Merivale.

I believe the owl was supposed to be the bird of Athena, and stood for
wisdom, or some such rot. Anyhow, it wasn’t a bad idea in its way, for a
more owlish sort of school than Merivale I never was at.

And young Mayne got more of these books than anybody; but to him they
were as grass, and he thought nothing of them.  Whereas Protheroe
minimus had never won a prize in his life, and wanted one fearfully--not
for itself, but for the valuable effect it would have on his mother.

She was a widow and loved Protheroe minimus best of her three sons.  The
others had taken prizes and were fair fliers at school; but Protheroe
min. was useless except at running.  So, woman-like, just because he
couldn’t get a prize anyhow, his mother was set on his doing so, and
promised him rare rewards if he would only work extra hard, or be extra
good, or extra something, and so scare up a blue book with a gold owl at
any cost.

Well, if you have a financial mind, you will see at a glance that here
was a possible opportunity. At least, so it looked to me.  Because on
the one hand was young Mayne, always fearfully hard up and always
getting prizes at the end of each term as a matter of course; while on
the other hand was Protheroe min., never hard up but never a scholastic
success, so to say, from the beginning of the term to the end--and, of
course, never even within sight of a prize of any sort.

Here it seemed to me was the whole problem of supply and demand in a
nutshell; and the financier instinct cried out in me, as it were, that I
ought to be up and doing.

So I went to young Mayne and said that I thought it was a frightful pity
all his great skill was being chucked away, and bringing no return more
important than the mournful things that he won as prizes.  And he said:

"A time will come, Mitchell."

And then I told him that a time had come.

"I know you sell your prizes for a few bob at home, and that you think
nothing of them," I said. "But I had a bit of a yarn with that kid
Protheroe yesterday, and it seems that what is nothing to you would be a
perfect godsend to him. You may not believe it, but his mother, who is a
bit dotty on him, has promised him five pounds if he will bring home a
prize."

"Five pounds!" said Mayne.  "The best prize old Dun ever gave wasn’t
worth five bob."

"She doesn’t want to sell it--she wants to keep it for the honour and
glory of Protheroe min.," I explained.  "And the idea in my mind in
bringing you chaps together for your mutual advantage was, firstly, that
you should let Protheroe have one of your prizes to take home in triumph
to his mother; and, secondly, that he should give you a document
swearing to let you have two pounds of his five pounds at the beginning
of next term."

Mayne was much interested at this suggestion, and, knowing that he must
be a snip for at least two prizes, if not three, at the end of the
summer term, he had no difficulty whatever in falling in with my scheme.

We were allowed to walk in the playing-fields on Sunday after chapel
before dinner, and then Mayne and Protheroe minimus and myself discussed
the details.

Funnily enough, they were so full of it between themselves that they did
not exactly realize where I came in; so I had to remind Protheroe that
it was I who had arranged the supply when I heard about his demand; and
I had also to remind him he had certainly said that if anybody could put
him in the way of a prize, he would give that person a clear pound at
the beginning of next term.

I also had to remind Mayne that he had promised me ten shillings on
delivery of his two pounds.

In fact, before the day was done I got them both to sign documents;
because, as I say, when they once got together over it, they seemed
rather to forget me.  So I explained to them that my part was simply
that of a financier, and that many men made their whole living in that
way, arranging supplies for demands and bringing capitalists together in
a friendly spirit.  But not for nothing.

They quite saw it, but thought I asked too much. However, I was older
than they were, and speedily convinced them that I had not.

There was only one difficulty in the way after this, and Protheroe came
to me about it, and I helped him over it free of charge.  He said:

"When I take home the prize, what shall I say it’s for?  You know what
my school reports are like.  There’s never a loophole for a prize of any
kind."

"You might say good conduct," I suggested; but Protheroe min. scorned
the thought.

"That would give away the whole show at once," he said.  "Because even
my mother wouldn’t be deceived.  It’s no good taking back a prize for
good conduct when the report will be sure to read as usual--’No attempt
at any improvement,’ which is how it always goes."

Everything I suggested, Protheroe scoffed at in the same way, so I could
see the prize would have to be for something not mentioned at all in the
school report.

Of course, you don’t get book prizes for cricket, or footer, or running,
which--especially the latter--were the only things that Protheroe min.
could have hoped honestly to get a prize for.  But I stuck to the
problem, and had a very happy idea three nights before the end of the
term.  I then advised Protheroe to say the prize was for "calisthenics."

There are no prizes for calisthenics at Merivale; but it sounded rather
a likely subject, especially as he was a dab at it.  And, anyway, he
thought it would satisfy his mother and be all right.

So that was settled, and it only remained for Mayne to get his lawful
prizes and hand over the least important to Protheroe min.

It all went exceedingly well--at the start--and young Mayne got the
prizes and gave Protheroe the second, which was for literature.

The thing was composed entirely of poems--Longfellow, or Southey, or
some such blighter--and Protheroe said that his mother would fairly
revel to think that he had won it.  He packed it in his box after
"breaking up," and we exchanged our agreements; and it came out, when
all was over, that young Mayne was to have two pounds out of Protheroe’s
five, and I was to have ten bob from Mayne and a pound from
Protheroe--thirty shillings in all; and Protheroe would have the prize
and two pounds, not to mention other pickings, which would doubtless be
given to him by his proud and grateful mother.

You might have thought that nothing could go wrong with a sound
financial scheme of that sort. I put any amount of time and thought into
the transaction, and as it was my first introduction into the world of
business, so to speak, and I stood to net a clear thirty shillings,
naturally I left no stone unturned, as they say, to make it a brilliant
and successful affair.

And yet it all went to utter and hopeless smash, though it was no fault
of mine.

And you certainly couldn’t blame Protheroe min. or Mayne either.  In
fact, Protheroe must have carried it off very well when he got home, and
the calisthenics went down all right; and Mayne, when his people asked
how it was that he hadn’t got more than one prize, was ingenious enough
to say that he’d suffered from hay fever all the term and been too off
colour to make his usual haul.

So everything would have been perfection but for the idiotic and
footling behaviour of Protheroe min.’s mother.

This excitable and weak-minded woman was not content with just quietly
taking the prize and putting it in a glass case with the prizes won in
the past by Protheroe’s brothers.  She must go fluttering about telling
his wretched relations what he’d done; and, as if that was not enough,
she got altogether above herself and wrote to Dr. Dunston about it.  She
said how glad and happy it had made her, and that success in the
gymnasium was something to begin with, and that she hoped and prayed
that it would lead to better things, and that they would live to be
proud of Protheroe minimus yet, and such-like truck!

Well, the result was a knock-down blow to us all, as you may imagine,
and the Doctor showed himself both wily and beastly, as usual.  For he
merely asked Protheroe’s mother to send back the prize at the beginning
of the term, as he fancied there might have been some mistake; but he
begged her not to mention the matter to Protheroe minimus.

So when Protheroe and Mayne and myself all arrived again for the arduous
toil of the winter term, and Mayne and I were eager for the financial
disimbursements to begin, we heard the shattering news that, at the last
moment, Protheroe hadn’t got his fiver.

It was to have been given to him on the day that he came back to school;
but instead his mother had merely told him that she feared there was a
little mistake somewhere, and that she couldn’t give him his hard-earned
cash till Dr. Dunston had cleared the matter up.

Needless to say that Dunston did clear it up with all the brutality of
which he was capable.

As for myself, when the crash came, I hoped it would happen to me as it
often does to professional financiers in real life, and that I should
escape, as it were.  Not, of course, that I had done anything that in
fairness made it necessary for me to escape, because to take advantage
of supply and demand is a natural law of self-preservation, and
everybody does it as a matter of course, not only financiers.

But, much to my annoyance, the common-sense view of the thing was not
taken, and I found myself "in the cart," as they say, with young Mayne
and Protheroe minimus.

The Doctor, on examining Protheroe’s prize for calisthenics, instantly
perceived that it was in reality young Mayne’s prize for literature.
But evidently anything like strategy of this kind was very distasteful
to the Doctor.  In fact, he took a prejudiced view from the first, and
as young Mayne was only eleven and Protheroe min. merely ten and a half,
it instantly jumped to Dunston’s hateful and suspicious mind that
somebody must have helped them in what he called a "nefarious project."
And, by dint of some very unmanly cross-questioning, he got my name out
of Mayne.

I never blamed Mayne; in fact, I quite believed him when he swore that
it only slipped out under the treacherous questions of the Doctor; but
the result was, of course, unsatisfactory in every way for me.

I was immediately sent for, and had no course open to me but to explain
the whole nature of financial operations to Dr. Dunston, and try to make
him see that I had simply fallen in with the iron laws of supply and
demand.

Needless to say, I failed, for he was in one of his fiery and snorting
conditions and above all appeal to reason.

"It was an ordinary sort of transaction, sir," I said, "and I don’t see
that anybody was hurt by it.  In fact, everybody was pleased, including
Mrs. Protheroe."

This made him simply foam at the mouth.

I had never been what you may call a great success with him, and now to
hear sound business views from one still at the early age of sixteen,
fairly shook him up.

He ordered me to go back to my class, and when I had gone, he flogged
young Mayne and Protheroe minimus.  He then forgave them and told them
to go and sin no more; and the same day, doubtless after the old fool
had cooled down a bit, he wrote to my father and put the case before
him--though not quite fairly--and said that, apparently, I had no moral
sense, and a lot of other insulting and vulgar things.  In conclusion,
he asked my father to remove me, that I might find another sphere for my
activities.

And my father did.

He never took my view of the matter exactly; but he certainly did not
take Dr. Dunston’s view either.  He seemed to be more amused than
anything, and was by no means in such a wax with Dr. Dunston as I should
have expected.

He said that the scholastic point of view was rather stuffy and lacked
humour; and then he explained that I had certainly not acted quite on
the straight, but had been a "deceitful and cunning little bounder."

I was a good deal hurt at this view, and when he found a billet for me
in the firm of Messrs. Martin & Moss, Stock Brokers, I felt very glad
indeed to go into it and shake off the dust of school from my feet, as
they say.

It is a good and a busy firm, and I have been here a fortnight now.  Ten
days ago, happening to pass Mr. Martin’s door, and catching my name, I
naturally stood and listened and heard an old clerk tell Mr. Martin that
I was taking to the work like a duck takes to water.

I am writing this account of the business at Merivale on sheets of the
best correspondence paper of Messrs. Martin & Moss!

They would not like it if they knew.

But they won’t know.




                                THE END




                Printed in the United States of America.




           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




               The following pages contain advertisements
                 of Macmillan books by the same author



                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR


                              Old Delabole

                           BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

                    Author of "Brunei’s Tower," etc.

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

A critic in reviewing _Brunei’s Tower_ remarked that it would seem that
Eden Phillpotts was now doing the best work of his career.  There was
sufficient argument for this contention in the novel then under
consideration and further demonstration of its truth is found in _Old
Delabole_, which, because of its cheerful and wise philosophy and its
splendid feeling for nature and man’s relation to it, will perhaps
ultimately take its place as its author’s best.  The scene is laid in
Cornwall.  Delabole is a slate mining town and the tale which Mr.
Phillpotts tells against it as a background, one in which a matter of
honor or of conscience is the pivot, is dramatic in situation and doubly
interesting because of the moral problem which it presents.  Mr.
Phillpotts’s artistry and keen perception of those motives which actuate
conduct have never been better exhibited.

"Another good story from an able hand."--_New York Sun_.

"A novel of large significance."--_Boston Herald_.

"A more effective piece of dramatic description could scarcely be put
into print."--_North American (Philadelphia)_.

"Besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of human nature
in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet humor and a deal
of mellow wisdom."--_New York Times_.



                             Brunei’s Tower

                           BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

The regeneration of a faulty character through association with
dignified, honest work and simple, sincere people is the theme which Mr.
Phillpotts has chosen for his latest novel. Always an artist, he has, in
this book, made what will perhaps prove to be his most notable
contribution to literature. Humor and a genuine sympathetic
understanding of the human soul are reflected throughout it.  The scene
is largely laid in a pottery, and the reader is introduced in the course
of the action to the various processes in the art.  The central figure
is a lad who, having escaped from a reform school, has sought shelter
and work in the pottery.  Under the influence of the gentle, kindly folk
of the community he comes in a measure to realize himself.

"It touches lightly upon love, upon the pathos of old age, upon the
workman’s passion for his work, upon the artist’s worship of his art,
upon an infinite variety of human ways and moods, and it is filled to
its depths with reflections upon life that are very near to life itself.
It is Mr. Phillpotts at his characteristic best."--_Boston Transcript_.

"The daily bread of life is in this book ... magnificently written, ...
absorbingly interesting, and holds that element of surprise which is
never lacking in the work of the true story teller.  It is a book for
which to be frankly grateful, for it holds matter for many hours’
enjoyment.--_New York Times_.



                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                            Faith Tresilion

_Decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.35_

"Its movement is brisk, and the development of its plot is emphasized at
certain steps with sudden surprises--all of which contribute toward
holding the reader’s attention."--_New York Times_.

"A rousing story, having about it the tang and flavor of the sea, and
with the sound of trumpets ringing through....  Mr. Phillpotts has
chosen a period of thrills for his story and has succeeded very well in
putting across the bracing atmosphere of perilous times.  His portrayal
of the coast folk of Daleham rings true and refreshing."--_Kansas City
Star_.

"A tale picturesque in its scenes and rich in its character."--_Boston
Transcript_.

"Mr. Phillpotts may be congratulated upon having written a remarkable
book in which there is not a dull page."--_Philadelphia Ledger_.

"A book that is distinctly interesting."--_New York Herald_.

"No character that Mr. Phillpotts has created can surpass that of Emma
Tresilion."--_Boston Times_.

"It is a very readable story."--_The Outlook_.

"A book of stirring adventure and sensational experiences."--_Literary
Digest_.

"Never has Eden Phillpotts written so swinging a romance."--_Bellman_.

"A rattling good story."--_Los Angeles Times_.



                  OTHER OF MR. EDEN PHILLPOTTS’ NOVELS


                           The Three Brothers

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"’The Three Brothers’ seems to us the best yet of the long series of
these remarkable Dartmoor tales.  If Shakespeare had written novels we
can think that some of his pages would have been like some of these....
The book is full of a very moving interest, and it is agreeable and
beautiful."--_New York Sun_.



                           Knock at a Venture

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous
touches.



                             The Portreeve

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"Twice, at least, he has reached and even surpassed the standard of his
first notable work.  Once was in ’The Secret Woman.’  The second time is
in ’The Portreeve.’  In sheer mastery of technique it is the finest
thing he has done.  From the beginning to the end the author’s touch is
assured and unfaltering.  There is nothing superfluous, nothing
unfinished....  And the characters, even to the least important, have
the breath of life in them."--_The Providence Journal_.



                             My Devon Year

_Cloth, 8vo, $2.00, with 38 Monotint plates, $2.00_

"One of the most charming nature books recently published.... This book
will inspire such persons and many others to get back to Mother Earth
and see her wonders with a new eye.  To those who know the rich Devon
country it describes ’My Devon Year’ is a delight from beginning to end,
but this knowledge is not essential to its thorough enjoyment."--_New
York Mail_.




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