THE AFFAIR OF LE WILLOW
While Mr. Chowdler was lamenting that discipline was going to the dogs,
the boys were beginning to complain that liberty was being destroyed.
Some of them went so far as to maintain that Chiltern was becoming a
regular preparatory school. For not only were motor-bicycles forbidden
(they had always been _that_), but it was becoming positively dangerous
to ride them. Moreover, detection entailed consequences. In the palmy
days of Dr. Gussy it had been the ambition of every boy, caught in a
misdemeanour, to be reported to the headmaster; and the appeal from
summary justice to Cæsar had been one of the most cherished privileges
of Chiltern whilst Dr. Gussy was Cæsar. For Dr. Gussy believed in
talking--earnest, practical, confidential talking. As the boys said,
“Gus treated you like a gentleman”; whereas Flaggon--there was no
pleasure, nothing morally bracing, about an interview with Flaggon.
And other offences besides motor-biking were being detected with
alarming frequency. Masters, who had hitherto been regarded as quite
inoffensive, seemed to take a pleasure in appearing where they were
least expected. The truth is that, having less belief in Dr. Gussy’s
talks than Dr. Gussy himself, they had got into the habit of purposely
avoiding knowledge which they knew would lead to no result; but,
finding that Mr. Flaggon was prepared to act as well as talk, they
resumed their normal activities.
No inconsiderable factor in the growing absence of security was the
disappearance of “Whisky Toddler,” the college porter. When he paid
his surprise visit to Chiltern in the holidays, Mr. Flaggon had been
conscious of a subtle aroma about the place, which ceased suddenly
when he took leave of the porter; and the suddenness of the change had
set him wondering whether the extreme solemnity of Mr. Todd was due
solely to wisdom or was partly induced by alcohol. The wonder did not
diminish on closer acquaintance, and an unexpected visit to the Lodge,
one evening, settled all doubts. Mr. Todd was found in a state of
hilarious incoherence. It was, of course, an accident--a toothache, and
an old-fashioned remedy, recommended by a friend, which had produced
unforeseen results in one unused to spirituous liquors. Mr. Todd
refused with quiet dignity to purchase the chance of reinstatement by
taking the pledge and spending a month in a home for inebriates. He
preferred to retire, at once, on a quarter’s salary and a small pension.
The boys, of course, had always known that “Whisky Toddler” drank like
a fish; but opinion on the staff was acutely divided. There is no
question that has so many sides to it as drink, nor one about which it
is so hard to arrive at any convincing conclusion. The very fact that
Mr. Todd’s nose was red and his eyes were watery was, to some, a proof
of his innocence. For people are sure to say that a man with a red nose
and watery eyes drinks; whereas anyone _may_ have a red nose and weak
eyes without drinking, and it is horribly unfair that a man should be
treated as a moral leper because of some physical infirmity. There were
many, therefore, besides Mr. Plummer who believed, and still believe,
that poor Todd was “hardly treated”; and poor Todd said nothing to
discourage their belief.
His place was taken by a man of unprepossessing manners and abrupt
activity--Pigeon was his name. There was a certain mystery about his
past. Some said that he had once been a spy in the pay of the Russian
police; others, that he had been a proctor’s bulldog at Oxford; others,
that he had been a Scotland Yard detective. At all events, there could
be no doubt that it was as a detective that he was brought by the “New
Gus” to Chiltern. A porter is assumed to possess tact; but Pigeon had
none--no gift of shutting his eyes on occasions when eyes are better
shut. And so it came to pass that he discovered Mr. Chowdler’s Prætor
smoking among the rhododendrons in Colonus, and reported him to the
headmaster.
At Chiltern the captain of every house was called its “Prætor” and
wielded vast authority. In a post for which character was the prime
consideration, position in the school was only of secondary importance.
Hence it happened that, though le Willow had with difficulty fought
his way into the senior Fifth, he was Prætor of Mr. Chowdler’s house.
But, though not distinguished intellectually, he was captain designate
of the eleven for the succeeding year, a very fair change bowler, and
a bat with a most taking style. He enjoyed the entire confidence of
his housemaster and the respect of his fellows. It was regrettable,
therefore, from every point of view, that he should have been smoking
behind the rhododendrons in Colonus; and still more regrettable that,
having been smoking, he should have been discovered.
Enough has been said already of Mr. Chowdler to make it clear that he
was adamantine on the question of discipline. But it was a matter of
common observation amongst his colleagues that his attitude towards
offences underwent a considerable change when the offender was one
of his own boys. This is a species of infirmity to which parents and
housemasters are peculiarly liable. In Mr. Chowdler’s case it took
the form of a conviction that, though “his lads” might be technically
in the wrong, they were morally quite sound; and he always held that
punishment ought to take account of the character of the offender. He
was really pained by le Willow’s “thoughtlessness”; but there were
extenuating circumstances. The boy was encouraged to smoke at home, and
he had one of those muddled old heads that find it so difficult to draw
the distinction between home and school; especially when the home is a
good one. The poor old fellow had admitted to him (Chowdler), with a
shake of his poor old head and a look in his poor old eyes which was
really pathetic, that he knew he was a “blighted ass.” He was, in fact,
just the kind of boy for whom justice should be tempered with mercy.
All this, and more, Mr. Chowdler said to the headmaster on behalf of
his Prætor, and he was profoundly shocked when Mr. Flaggon, after
listening attentively to the counsel for the defence, announced that he
was going to deprive le Willow of his Prætorship and Prefectship, not
merely temporarily, but for the term of his natural life. “I fail to
see where the mercy comes in,” growled Mr. Chowdler.
“Perhaps in my not flogging him into the bargain,” replied Mr. Flaggon.
“But, really, I don’t consider this a case for mercy. The boy is in a
position of trust. Five days ago I called the Prefects together and
spoke to them about their duties, especially the duty of setting a
good example: and I mentioned smoking by name. All the circumstances
aggravate the offence. I have no right to be merciful.”
“But probably he didn’t understand,” pleaded Mr. Chowdler. “You don’t
know what a business it is to drive any idea into that poor, thick old
head of his. The boy’s as honest as the daylight, but terribly obtuse.”
“If he can’t understand a plain speech and a plain duty,” replied Mr.
Flaggon, “he is certainly not fit to exercise power.”
“You can’t prevent a boy with such athletic gifts and such a sunny
nature from exercising power by any official ukase,” said Mr.
Chowdler, with increasing warmth. “If you destroy his self-respect by
a punishment which he feels to be unjust, you take away from him all
motives for doing right; you drive him into evil courses.”
“I intend my Prefects to govern,” replied Mr. Flaggon; “and you can
never get men or boys to act responsibly unless you visit grave
breaches of duty on them heavily. I am sorry for le Willow, if he is
all that you describe him; but I cannot alter my decision.”
“You admit then,” snapped out Mr. Chowdler, “that you are sacrificing
the boy to an abstract theory.”
“I admit nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Flaggon.
A good many of the masters, who did not share Mr. Chowdler’s enthusiasm
for le Willow, approved of the headmaster’s action; and, though they
did not say so publicly, were not sorry to see Mr. Chowdler’s straying
sheep treated for once in a way like other people’s straying sheep. But
Mr. Chowdler himself made no attempt to conceal his displeasure either
from masters or boys.
“I don’t call that kind of thing discipline,” he said; “I call it
panic. A strong man doesn’t hit about wildly without caring where the
blow falls. With all his faults, dear old Gussy was never unjust. Le
Willow’s too good an old fellow at bottom to be soured for long or lose
his sunny nature. But that’s how criminals are made.”
Mr. Chowdler’s views received a striking corroboration, at least in
his own eyes, when, three weeks later, le Willow was caught cribbing.
It is true that Mr. Bent, his Form master, had suspected him for the
greater part of two terms; but, as Mr. Plummer said, suspicion proves
nothing. In the midst of his grief Mr. Chowdler was almost triumphant.
“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “You can see now for yourselves.
That’s how boys are driven into evil courses.”
But the headmaster, instead of recognising the folly of his ways and
apologising to Mr. Chowdler and his ex-prætor, decided that, after this
second offence, the boy could not remain in the school and must leave
at the end of the Term.
Dismiss the captain of next year’s eleven, a bat with the most taking
style that had been seen at Chiltern since the days of Goring who
played for England, and a very fair change bowler into the bargain!
All Chiltern was aghast, and even Mr. Chase, who usually had something
to say on behalf of the headmaster, admitted that it was an act of
doubtful wisdom.
To Mr. Chowdler it was not merely an act of doubtful wisdom, it was
a travesty of justice, an outrage, a scandal--in fact almost any
strong word that you can think of. When a man thinks as strongly as
Mr. Chowdler thought about some gross miscarriage of justice, it is
impossible for him to keep his feelings to himself; he would rather
be guilty of indiscretion than of a criminal silence; and soon boys,
masters, and the parents and relatives of the victim, were in full
possession of Mr. Chowdler’s opinions on the subject.
Le Willow was well connected; in fact, as Mrs. Chowdler put it, he had
a grandfather; and the grandfather wrote a letter to the chairman of
the Council which caused that gentleman much concern. He wanted to know
why the dickens they had appointed to Chiltern a headmaster who didn’t
know the ABC of his profession. Expel from school a promising lad for
a boyish offence of which they had all been guilty, probably, in their
day! The thing was absurd. Boys and masters alike were in a state of
mutiny; and he called upon the chairman to intervene.
The chairman was perplexed; for the grandfather was no ordinary
grandfather but a man with a commanding name and a great social
position. After some hesitation he wrote to the headmaster, disclaiming
any idea of interfering, but asking for information. He wished, he
said, to be in a position to contradict certain reports, unfounded no
doubt, which were being circulated in the London clubs and which might
damage the school.
Thus appealed to, Mr. Flaggon wrote a detailed account of the affair
and of the principles which had guided his own action. He added that
the tone and discipline of Chiltern were very different from what he
had been led to expect, and that le Willow, besides being somewhat old
for his place in the school, was not a desirable asset.
The chairman shook his head dubiously over this communication and
murmured something about “new brooms” and “excess of zeal”; but he
informed the grandfather with much tact that, though the Council felt
great sympathy with him, they were unable to interfere in a matter that
directly concerned the discipline of the school, and that any appeal
for mercy must be made to the headmaster in person. As for le Willow,
he was sure that the boy had a brilliant future in front of him, and he
wished him every success.
And there the matter ended, except that the le Willow parents cursed
Mr. Flaggon by all the le Willow gods and threatened to bring an
action; which threat they were wise enough not to carry into effect.
Also that Lord Chalvey withdrew his son who was entered for Mr.
Chowdler’s house in the following Term. This was a contingency which
Mr. Chowdler had not foreseen when he started on his campaign, and it
did not help to reconcile him to the headmaster.
And, while the chairman was actually penning his reply to the duke,
one wet November afternoon, Mr. Plummer and Mr. Bent were once more
pacing the “Ushers’ Grind” in mackintoshes. A steady drizzle had damped
their fighting spirit, and taunts that usually kindled flames had only
produced a perfunctory fizzle. At last Mr. Plummer said:
“I’m afraid the boys haven’t a great respect for Flaggon.”
“I shouldn’t take Chowdler too seriously,” said Mr. Bent.
“I didn’t say Chowdler,” replied his companion; “I said the boys.”
“I know you did,” said Mr. Bent. “And _I_ said Chowdler, because I bet
that he has been telling you his story of the week--we have all heard
it--to wit, how little Simpkin looked up at him with a wistful smile
and said, ‘Sir, do you think the new headmaster understands anything
about boys?’”
“Suppose he did!” said Mr. Plummer defiantly. “What then?”
“Only,” replied Mr. Bent, “that it isn’t a _very_ likely thing for a
boy to say, on his own. I know little Simpkin; he’s in my Form. All
Chowdler’s pets are in my Form. A nasty, greasy, oily little beast. He
tried ‘the wistful’ on with me once, but never again.”
“The fact that you think him oily and greasy,” retorted Mr. Plummer,
“is no proof that he didn’t say it.”
“I never said it was,” cried Mr. Bent, raising his voice, “and I
don’t doubt that little Simpkin _did_ say it and will say it again
till he gets another cue. What _does_ amaze me is that, with all his
experience, Chowdler has never learned that boys encourage us in our
illusions by quoting at us our own pet ideas and phrases. It isn’t
conscious hypocrisy--merely an instinct of self-preservation, or an
amiable desire to please. They approach us, as _we_ should approach
some beast of uncertain temper, with the sounds that experience has
shown to be most soothing.”
“So you have said before,” snorted Mr. Plummer. “But, anyhow, you admit
that Chowdler has experience; and Flaggon has none.”
“Pooh! experience indeed!” cried Mr. Bent contemptuously. “What’s
experience? A snare and a delusion, unless you can bring an unbiassed
mind to bear on it; which schoolmasters never can. The man who looks
at this view, for the first time, with the naked eye, sees far more of
it than the man who looks at it for the hundredth time through smoked
glasses. Experience is the smoke on the glasses; it’s the curse of our
profession. We are all much more efficient when we’re young than we
ever are afterwards. Give _me_ the young and inexperienced man.”
“Tipham, for example,” said Mr. Plummer drily.
“Oh, Tipham’s an exception,” replied Mr. Bent airily. “Tipham never
_was_ young. He was born with a greased head, grey flannel trousers,
and a terror of being thought sane. But I can tell you, Chowdler was
ten times more efficient as a master fifteen years ago, when you and I
first came to the school, than he is now. We all become progressively
greater idiots as we grow ripe in experience.”
“Bosh!” said Mr. Plummer.