Like a huge reel of thread the long winter term unrolled itself.
November drifted by with its gusty winds that shrieked in the empty
cloisters. December came with its dark mornings and steadily falling
rains. The First Fifteen matches were over. Dulbridge and Tonford had
both been beaten handsomely; Mansell had got his Firsts. The Colts drew
at Limborne, and finished their season with an overwhelming victory over
Weybridge. House games began again, and the Thirds and Two Cock became
the only possible topics of conversation. During the first half of the
term Hazelton, as was inevitable, had had to spend nearly all his time
in First Fifteen puntabouts and upper ground games. The House had seen
little of him. But now, with all the big matches over, and only the old
Fernhurstians' match to come on the last Saturday of the term, he had
time to devote all his energies to the training of house sides. If he
had not talked so much he would have been one of the strong, silent
Englishmen. For to all outward appearances he was taciturn,
unimaginative, self-willed. But he had a very nasty tongue, and never
hesitated to use it at the expense of his enemies. As a house captain he
was a distinct success. He knew the game well, and was able to inspire a
keenness that was not jingoistic. He also had the rare virtue of knowing
where to stop. He never made sides play on till they were speechless
with fatigue, as some over-enthusiastic house captains had been known to
do. He was very popular with his sides.
Every evening before hall there congregated in Gordon's study all the
old faces of his first year, with one or two new ones. Nowhere so easily
as at a Public School does one find oneself drifting apart from an old
acquaintance; not for any real reason, not for any quarrel, but merely
because circumstances seem to will it so. But when the thought of House
matches returned, the old lot came back together to fight their battles
over again, and to dream of the silver cups glittering below the statue
of Edward VI. They were all there: Hunter, who had seemed to pass almost
out of Gordon's life since he had begun to play in the Fifteen;
Mansell, who now spent much of his time with Hazelton; Betteridge, who
was more often than not with Harding. No. 1 Study was very convenient.
Roll was held just outside, and when the prefect's voice was heard
calling the first name the door would be flung open, and still reclining
in arm-chairs they shouted out the immemorial "sum." About five minutes
before the hour of roll-call juniors from the day-room and the farther
studies would begin to collect round the hot pipes in the passage,
fearful of being late. Then in No. 1 Lovelace would wind up the
gramophone, and the strains of _When the Midnight Choo-choo leaves for
Alabama_ broke out with deafening violence. The concert lasted till the
first strokes of the hour had boomed out. Roll over, they all separated
to their various studies. Lovelace took out his _Sportsman_ and began to
total up his winnings; Gordon either lay full length in the hammock, a
new and much envied acquisition which was slung across from door to
window, and read for the hundredth time the haunting melodies of
_Rococo_, or else, as was more usual, wandered round the studies with
the magnificent air of indifference that marked all members of the
Sixth.
Then came prayers; after which Gordon and Davenport made for the
seclusion of their double dormitory. Lights were out at nine-fifteen for
the big upper dormitories, and till then they used to wander down the
passage for the ostensible reason of getting hot water, but in reality
to watch, with the superior air of Olympians, the life of lesser breeds.
They imagined themselves great bloods during these few minutes after
prayers. Sometimes when the House tutor was supposed to be out they
would join in a game of football in the passage; but as they were caught
once and each got a Georgic, this pastime lost its charm. Usually they
lolled in the doorway with a perfect superiority, and talked of the old
"rags" and discomfitures of two years back, for the benefit of admiring
listeners.
"Do you remember when Mansell slept in that bed?" Gordon would say.
"No; I was not here that term," Davenport would reply; "but I sha'n't
forget when the Chief found Betteridge's bed pitched on the floor, with
Betteridge underneath and Lovelace sitting on top."
Was it possible, thought some small fry, that the great Mansell, who
played for the Fifteen, had once actually slept in the same bed as he
occupied now? Had Betteridge, who had only that night given half the
day-room a hundred lines, once had his bed shipped on that very floor!
It all seemed like a gigantic fairy story. And to think that Caruthers
had seen these things!
But they were not long, these moments of the assumption of the godhead.
Darkness soon fell on the long passage, and only whispered talking
sounded faint and far away. Gordon and Davenport then went back to their
room, and on evenings after a hard game they had a small supper. They
had managed to discover a loose board, and the floor space caused by its
removal served as a cupboard, a cupboard so damp and unhealthy that the
most lenient sanitary inspector must infallibly have condemned it. Here,
just before afternoon school, they secreted ginger beer bottles, a loaf
of bread, butter, some tomatoes and a chunk of Gorgonzola cheese. In the
morning they carried away the bottles in their pockets. It would have
been much easier and much more comfortable to have had a meal in their
study, but then it would have lacked the savour of romance. The rule
forbidding the importation of food into the dormitories was very strict.
At the end of the term, when both were going to leave that particular
room, they nailed down the board, so that no other marauder should
imitate them. They wished to be unique. But before they did so, they put
in the mouldy cupboard a lemonade bottle and one of the blue Fernhurst
roll-books for the Michaelmas Term, 1913. They underlined their names in
it, and left it as a memento of a few happy evenings.
"I wonder," said Caruthers, "if years hence someone will pull up that
board and find the book, and seeing our names will wonder who we were."
"Perhaps," said Davenport. "And, you know, they may try and find out
something about us in back numbers of _The Fernhurstian_, or in the
photographs of house sides. Do you think they will be able to find out
anything about us?"
"I hope so; but how little we know even of the bloods of 1905, and as
likely as not we sha'n't ever be bloods. It will be rather funny if some
day of all the things we have done nothing remains but the blue
roll-book."
"Funny?" said Davenport. "Rather pathetic, I should say."
At fifteen one is apt to be sentimental.
Perhaps some rude fingers have already torn up that board; perhaps even
now some new generation of Fernhurstians is using it as a receptacle for
tobacco, or cheese, or any other commodity contraband to the
dormitories. But perhaps underneath a board in No. 1 double dormitory
there still repose that identical lemonade bottle and the roll-book with
its blue cover, now sadly faded and its leaves turned up with age, to
serve as Gordon's epitaph, when all his other deeds have perished in
oblivion.
* * * * *
There is perhaps nothing that has made so many friendships as a big row,
or the prospect of one. We always feel in sympathy with people whose
aims are identical with our own, and the principals in some big row or
escapade cannot help being bound close together by common ties. A mutual
danger has brought together many ill-assorted pairs, and among others it
showed Gordon and Rudd that they had something in common with one
another. Gordon had always looked upon Rudd as a guileless ass who was
no good at games, did nothing for the House, and was only useful as the
universal provider of cribs. But after the Pack Monday Fair incident
Gordon saw that there was in Rudd a something which, if not exactly to
be admired, came very near it. It was a daring thing to challenge anyone
who was willing to come to the fair with him, and he had not shown the
slightest wish to back out of his agreement. Gordon decided to make his
better acquaintance, and in the process was brought face to face with
another fresh character, a type that was to set before him different
aims and standards. For Gordon was sharp enough to see more or less
below the surface. Rudd was a new type to him. It was clear that he had
some merits, especially pluck; and yet he was no good at games, and,
what was more extraordinary, did not seem in the least worried about his
failures. Gordon had always pitied those who could not scrape into the
Thirds.
"Poor devils!" he used to say in the arrogance of his own
self-satisfaction. "I expect they tried just as much as we did. And it
must be pretty awful for them to realise that they are no real use at
games at all."
He had never thought it possible that anyone with the slightest claims
to respectability could be quite indifferent to athletic success. But
Rudd was, after all, a presentable fellow, and yet he did not mind in
the least.
It was all very strange.
Only by trying to see the points of view of others do we get any real
idea of the trend of human thought. It is quite useless to start life
with fixed standards, and try to bring everyone to realise their
virtues. We must have some standard, it is true, or we should be as
rudderless boats; but it is of paramount importance that our standards
should be sufficiently elastic to include new movements; and not until
we have tried and weighed in the balance, and considered and sifted the
philosophies of others, should we attempt to form a philosophy for
ourselves.
By nature Gordon was arrogant and self-satisfied; but by meeting types
different from himself and in their company gaining glimpses of goals
other than his own, his character was undoubtedly broadened, his horizon
extended, and he managed to get things into better proportion.
For several people just at this time were influencing Gordon. But none
more so than Ferrers. Ever since the Stoics debate Gordon had become a
profound admirer of the new master, who had banged into the cloistered
Fernhurst life, bubbling over with the ideas of the rising generation,
intolerant of prejudice and tradition, clamorous for reform. It was a
great sight to see him walking about the courts. He was nearly always
dressed the same, in his blue woollen waistcoat, soft collar and serge
suit. He never walked anywhere without at least two books under his arm.
He was recognisable at once. If a stranger had glanced round the courts
in break, and had been asked afterwards if any of the masters had
attracted his attention, he might perhaps have mentioned "the Bull's"
powerful roll; with a smile he might have remarked on the prelatical
Rogers, stalking like Buckingham "half in heaven." There were six or
seven he _might_ have noticed, but there was only one person whom he
must have seen, whom he could not possibly have failed to pick out
immediately, and that was Ferrers. Personality was written on every
feature of his face, every movement was typical of youthful vigour and
action. His half-contemptuous swing suggested a complete scorn of
everything known before 1912. He was the great god of Gordon's soul,
greater even than Lovelace major had been, far greater than Meredith.
As he sat listening to Finnemore discussing artistic questions in form,
he felt wildly impatient to hear Ferrer's opinion. Nothing seemed
settled definitely until Ferrers had spoken, and only the Army and
Matriculation classes had the tremendous advantages of doing English
with him. Most of Ferrer's time was wasted in attempts to drive home
mathematical theories into the dense brain of a lower school set.
As to his influence in the school there could be no two opinions. The
bloods, of course, were too completely settled in their grooves of
Philistinism and self-worship to feel the force of innovation. But even
on a mild character like Foster's his effect was startling. Ferrer's
great theory was: "Let boys take their own time. The adage that it does
a boy good to do what he hates may be all right for the classics, but it
is no good to try that game with literature. Find out what a boy likes.
Encourage him, show you are in sympathy with his taste, and once in his
confidence gradually lead him step by step to the real stuff. He will
follow you, if you only make out you like what he likes. A boy hates the
superior attitude of 'Oh, quite good in its way, of course.' A master
must get to the boy's level; it is fatuous to try and drag the boy to
his at once." And there is abundant proof to show that this plan was a
success. When Ferrers first came, Foster, for example, read nothing but
Kipling and Guy Boothby. During his last term Gordon found him absorbed
in _Vanity Fair_ and _The Duchess of Malfi_. It would be difficult to
over-estimate the good Ferrers did at Fernhurst. From afar Gordon
worshipped him. He learnt from Foster what Ferrers had read to his form
and what he recommended them to read, and as soon as he could he
borrowed or bought the book. The school book-shop about this time began
to find in Gordon its most generous patron. At times Gordon would tell
Foster to ask Ferrers questions that interested him. And the answers,
usually a little vague and elastic, spurred Gordon on to fresh fields.
His taste was beginning to grow, and football "shop" was no longer his
only topic of conversation.