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_ROBIN LINNET_
_By E. F. Benson_
_Author of “Dodo,” “Up and Down,” etc._
[Illustration: colophon]
_LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW_
ROBIN LINNET
CHAPTER I
Damon and Pythias, collegiately and colloquially known as Day and Pie,
were seated in Damon’s room in the great quadrangle, on two chairs, side
by side, with a candle on the table that guttered in the draught, and a
copy of “Socrates’s Apology” (in the original Greek) between them.
Between them also, propped up against the candle, was a firmly literal
translation of what they were reading, to which they both constantly
referred. Underneath the candlestick in a far less accessible position,
since they desired to consult it much less frequently, was a Greek
lexicon. First one of them translated a few lines, with an eye fixed on
the English equivalent, and then the other. That was a more sociable way
of working than to sit separate and borrow the crib from each other.
Besides, there was only one candle, stolen from another fellow’s room,
as the electric light had, half an hour ago, got tired and gone to
sleep. The books, therefore, had to be centrally situated in this small
field of imperfect illumination.
They had got to the point where Socrates, having been warned to prepare
for the administration of the cup of hemlock at sundown, had sent for
his wife, Xantippe, and his children. But she had made so
unphilosophical a howling and feminine outcry that he had sent his
family away, and proceeded to spend his last hour in the company of his
friends.
Damon paused--he was translating at the moment--and lit a pipe, while
Pythias relaxed his attitude of polite attention.
“I vote we stop,” he said. “Socrates was evidently jolly sick of it all
and wanted to stop, too. It wouldn’t do to fly in the face of Socrates.
Whisky?”
Pythias shut the translation up in the original text.
“I’m not by way of drinking whisky,” he said, “but if you’ve got some
ice and soda-water----”
“Which you ordered for me, and put down to my account----” continued
Damon.
“So I did. In that case I don’t mind for once: I think I should rather
like it. It tastes beastly, but on the other hand, I drink it not for
what it is, but for what it does. And I’m talking like Socrates. In
other words, I drink it not for drinky but for drunky. It makes gay.
Lord, what a candle! By the grace of God, or probably without it, I
could light a better candle than that. I could light _such_ a candle, as
an Archbishop said just before they lit him. When do you suppose the
electric light will cease being funny?”
“’Bout morning.”
Damon took the guttering candle away, in order to get Pythias the
refreshment that apparently he didn’t want from his gyp-cupboard, and
left him in the dark. Upon which it seemed good to Pythias to scream for
his nurse and his mother in shrill falsetto. Damon couldn’t find the ice
at once, for it had been put, wrapped up in a cloth, in his
washing-basin, in order not to drip, and Pythias, with the exuberance
of youth, continued screaming....
Damon was the elder of the two by the space of an entire year, which,
when the one is twenty and the other only nineteen, is the equivalent of
a decade or so later on. People of fifty and sixty, in the eyes of
youth, are of about the same age, just as people of nineteen and twenty
in the eyes of the more mature are contemporaries. But the view of youth
is probably the more correct, for when a man has passed some fifty years
in this puzzling world, he has solved any problem of interest that he is
likely to solve, has seen all that he is really capable of observing,
and has assimilated all that his mental and moral digestion is able to
tackle. Consequently, it matters very little how much older than fifty
he is....
But there are wonderful things dawning every day on those of the sunnier
age; fresh horizons expand to their climbings, new stars swim into
larger heavens, virgin and undiscovered slopes mount upwards for eager
footsteps. Eventually the table-land is reached, and given that no
national crisis or peril comes along to make everybody look upwards
again to toppling precipices of ice, or menace of volcanic flame, the
more elderly trot quietly thereafter, to the eyes of youth, along a mild
and level road. They have married and begotten children, or they have
remained single with Pekinese dogs and knitting or the club bow-window
with the evening papers, to distract them gently as they move slowly on,
and to the young it all seems very remote and staid and uninteresting.
The exciting, the experimental age, when everything is worth trying, and
almost everything worth doing, has been left behind; youth, with its
causeless anticipations, and even more causeless disillusionments, its
insatiable curiosity, its stainless “seeing what things are like,” has
sunk gently below the horizon, and the desire even for experiment has
failed.
Our happy heroes, however, one screaming in the dark, the other
exploring a cupboard, had no idea what most things were like, except
that, without discrimination, they found that most things were jolly. At
present their best actual achievement was to have found each other, and
on that point, despite the discrepancy of their ages, their discoveries
were of pretty equal merit. They had been at Eton together, and the
intense friendship formed there had, rather unusually, renewed itself
and burned with a brighter flame when they came together again, not yet
a year ago, at St. Stephen’s College, Cambridge. They shared the
widening horizon, and yet kept their smaller horizon--the fresh
excitements and licences of the University had not obliterated the old.
To people like tutors and godfathers, Damon was known as Jim Lethbridge,
Pythias as Robin Linnet. It was inevitable, therefore, that he should be
more widely and intimately known as “Birds,” for how could there be an
amalgamation in one set of human limbs of a Robin and Linnet without
“Birds” being the natural formula for the owner?
It was a very hot night at the beginning of May, and, returning late
from an idle afternoon of paddling and bathing on the upper river, they
had neither of them gone into dinner in Hall, which would have implied
changing from shirt and flannel trousers and nothing much besides into a
more formal attire. So Birds had ordered in a loaf of bread, a cold duck
and a pot of jam to his own account, and some ice and soda-water and a
bottle of whisky to Jim’s, which seemed about fair. The remains of this
meal, about enough for a small cat, lay on the table in the window.
Then the electric light had ceased to be, and a single stolen candle had
guttered over a half-hour’s Plato....
So Jim returned with preventives against thirst, and in putting down the
guttering candle, spilt some hot wax over Robin’s brown hand. So he
stopped screaming, and began obscenely swearing. The obscenity meant
nothing whatever, nor did the amazing oaths: he talked like that just
because he was a boy, and there was only a boy to listen to him. But
peace returned with the long iced drink, and his mind went back to
Socrates and Xantippe.
“Of course he sent her and the kids away,” he said. “Being a female, she
didn’t understand him and his friends. He wanted to have a little
sensible conversation before dying. I’m sure I should. Do come and see
me when I’m dying, Jim. I’ll have you and my mother, because she’s
frightfully decent.”
“She can’t have much in common with you then,” said Jim. “Better have
the girl who sang about the oysters.”
“Oysters on the pier, I remember. That was at Easter, wasn’t it? You and
I went together, and waited at the stage-door. And she was with another
chap. Wonder who he was. Wonder....”
“What do you wonder?”
“Oh, nothing. It was only a rag. But I suppose girls cease to be a rag
some time. People go and marry them and live with them happily ever
afterwards. I should be awfully uncomfortable if I thought I was going
to live with one girl for ever. Buxom: they get buxom. There’s that
Jackson girl: she’s buxom already. Lord!”
“That Jackson girl,” said Jim, “told Badders you had the most beautiful
mouth she ever saw. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No. She wants to kiss me, and I don’t want to kiss her: that’s where we
are. She’s like a fat ferret, though most of them are lean. Marrying
now! I don’t want to marry anybody. I shouldn’t sleep a wink with
somebody snorting and breathing all night long. And if you have a
separate room they divorce you, don’t they?”
“Usually.”
“Well, the sooner I’m divorced the better,” said Robin.
“You’ve got to marry first.”
Robin took a long draught from his whisky and soda.
“I should like to be divorced first,” he said, “and marry afterwards.
And yet some fellows think about nothing but girls the whole blessed
day. Badders does. Pure waste of time. Give me a girl for ten minutes,
and then let me come back to my own little room. There’s a time for
everything under the sun, and, thank God, it’s not time to marry yet!”
Birds had lit a couple of cigarettes by mistake as he gave utterance to
these misogynistic expressions, and put one in each corner of his
beautiful mouth, and tried to drink his whisky and soda with the section
of mouth that lay in between them. That was not a very great success,
because one cigarette fell into his glass and the other got
whisky-logged. So he had to have some more ice and whisky and
soda-water. Jim, at the moment, was bending over the candle as he lit
his pipe, and there was a convenient cavity between his neck and the
collar of his shirt. And with the force and suddenness of conviction or
conversion, it was borne in upon Birds that a small lump of his ice must
be instantly inserted in that opening. This feat was accomplished with
masterly precision.
Jim gave one gasp of surprise and shock as the ice slid down his spine,
and turned the siphon full into Birds’ face. This half blinded him for a
moment, then he seized Jim round the waist and closed with him. The
siphon got wedged between their chests, and Jim’s iron finger never
relaxed till it was empty, though he received his due share of the
contents himself. A chair crashed to the ground, the table toppled and
overturned, the candle went out, and from the darkness came squeaks and
pants from the entangled wrestlers. Birds’ dripping shirt was split from
shoulder to waist by the nozzle of the siphon, but eventually he
wriggled from under the superincumbent Jim, sat firmly on his chest, and
grasped the pit of his stomach.
“Well?” he said, very much out of breath.
“All right: that’ll do. Whatever we are, let’s be calm. And
dignified.... Dignified.... And calm.... Besides, that lump of ice won’t
melt, and it’s hurting me.”
“Are you sorry? Damned sorry?” asked Birds.
“Yes! Oh, get up, you foul pig!”
The door opened, and Badders, who was Badsley, looked in. At that
precise moment the electric light was restored, and shone on the
upheaval.
“I thought I heard a cuckoo singing,” he remarked, “or some other bird.”
Jim advanced stealthily on him.
“That is very interesting,” he said. “You thought you heard a cuckoo,
did you? Birds, get between him and the door.”
The ill-starred Badders was a moment too late in his retreat. Birds
tripped him up, and Jim laid him flat on the floor. “The only question
is what to do with him,” he said. “Shall we bind the sacrifice with
cords? Cuckoo, indeed! That’s an insult to you, Birds. You shall
choose.”
So Badders was tied up, trussed like a fowl and set in the corner, and
the others threw paper darts at his face. He was obliged under threat of
torture to open his mouth wide, and the first who threw a paper dart
into it won. It lasted some time, and then the usual evening rag was
over, the room was restored to some semblance of order, and all three
sat down for refreshments. Birds stripped off his torn and dripping
shirt, and sat on the floor just as Nature had made him as far as the
waist. She had made him very nicely indeed.
“Fifth of May,” announced Badsley, “and I would to God it were the
fiftieth.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got my Tripos coming on. That’s the result of being so
devilish clever and being told to take your Tripos in your second year.
I almost wish I was a fool like Jim or you. What have you two been
doing? Why weren’t you in Hall?”
“Went up to Granchester in a canoodle, which rhymes with caboodle.”
“There was a young lady of Exeter,” remarked Badders thoughtfully.
“No, there wasn’t. At least, we know all about her.”
“She was more amusing than going to Granchester. Why didn’t you play
cricket this afternoon instead of slacking?”
“Because I’m playing for the University of Cambridge all to-morrow and
the next day,” said Birds, “and three days’ consecutive cricket is more
than I can bear.”
“That’s swank.”
“It is. You’d swank if you had been asked to play for the ‘Varsity. ‘Oh,
Mr. Linnet,’ they said to me, they did, ‘will you come and play bat and
ball with us? It would be nice of you, it would. Some boys from
Middlesex are coming up to play against us, they are, and we will have
such fun!’ So I said I would, I did, and I will. There’ll be three
stumps one end and three stumps the other, and a lot of little popping
creases. And I shall put my bat in front of my wicket, and hit the ball
high, high up in the air, and they’ll all run to catch it together, and
then dear little Birds will have made one run.”
“God!” said Jim. There really seemed very little else to say.
“After that----” began Birds again.
“Oh, shut it!”
“After that,” said Birds, not paying the slightest attention, “I shall
pat the little popping creases with my little bat, and change hats with
the umpire. And when they’re all ready again----”
“He’s drunk,” said Badders.
“I think it extremely unlikely: I am dead sober. Oh, I went to a lecture
by Jackson to-day, and noticed for the first time that he had a green
moustache. Why is that, I wonder?”
“Did he give you a billydux from Julia?”
“Yes. And told us a great deal about the Peloponnesian War that I really
had no conception of before. No conception whatever, I assure you. The
Peloponnese is shaped like a fig leaf, hence its name, and when Adam and
Eve were turned out of the Paradise, and sent to the Vomitorio, as
Jackson said----”
“He didn’t.”
“Quite right, he didn’t. But I am delirious to-night, and attribute it
to spending the afternoon on the Cam. Lord, it was jolly up there!
Beechen green and shadows numberless, you know, and lots of peewits. And
Jim sang of summer in full-throated ease. My throat was full, too,
because we had tea.”
Jim had lain down on the floor, with his back propped up against Birds’
knees, who in turn was propped up by the sofa where Badders sat.
“Hail to thee, blithe peewit, Birds thou never wert,” he remarked
fatuously.
“Never,” said Birds, suddenly opening his knees, so that Jim fell flat
on the ground. He made no effort whatever to move, and continued lying
there, while Birds got up and put a college cap on his head, and
invested himself in a scholar’s gown, which, against his bare skin,
looked somehow strangely indecent. He put his head on one side, in the
manner of Jackson lecturing, and pulled the place where his moustache
would have been, had he had one.
“I can’t think what Sphodrias was about,” he began, “and if you’ll turn
to the third chapter of the fourth book you’ll see how perfectly
inexplicable it was that he should have been kicking his heels at
Sphacteria----”
He broke off.
“Lor! A very poor sort of fellow is Jackers,” he said.
“And if it hadn’t been for Jackers there’d have been no Julia,” remarked
Jim, as he lay gazing at the ceiling from his prone position on the
hearth-rug.
Julia’s victim considered this. He had found a small piece of duck left
from the meal that he and Jim had made earlier in the evening, and
decided it was worth eating.
“No, you’re wrong there,” he said. “There would have been Julia somehow,
with or without Jackers. Julia’s the sort of girl who is bound to
happen, like earwigs and Tripos. Julia Jackson! What a name! Did you
ever hear such a name?”
Badsley had sat up on the sofa and was regarding Birds as he sat eating
duck with bare chest and bare arms, clad in his preposterous college cap
and gown and pair of flannel trousers.
“Do put something else on, Birds,” he said, “or take something off. You
make me blush. Why is it that a man with no clothes on is quite proper,
but a man with no clothes and a top hat is so wildly improper?”
“Dunno, and duncare. I’m quite comfortable, I am. I wish there was some
more food.”
“Whereas in silks my Julia goes,” said Jim.
“Take her, then: she’s your Julia. You said so,” said Birds, with his
mouth full. “That’s all right.”
“Birds, you talk about girls in a perfectly beastly way,” said Badsley.
“I don’t talk about them at all unless somebody else begins. Then I say
what I think, like a little gentleman. I like girls, smart ones, like
those in revues, just for a little while. Whereas Badders----”
“Badders the troubadour touched his guitar,” said Jim. “But I hope he
won’t.”
“I won’t,” said Badders. “All the same, to pass through a single day
without feeling keen about a girl seems to me an awful waste of time.”
“Gay Lothario,” said Jim. “Who is it now? Still the thing in the
tobacconist’s shop?”
“No, you ass, of course not. That was only----”
“Practice, to keep the Troubadour’s hand in,” said Birds. “Poor little
devil! Think what you make them suffer, Badders. All the little victims
in a row, dying for love of the lusty troubadour. Thing in the
tobacconist’s shop has expired, I suppose. Who is it now?”
“It’s your grandmother,” said the nettled Badders.
“Well, you have put your foot in it there,” said Birds serenely. “She
died last Sunday.”
“Oh, I say, I’m sorry,” said Badders.
Jim, lying on the floor, gave one loud puff of suppressed laughter, and
was silent again; Badsley thought it odiously unfeeling of him.
“I say, Birds, I really am sorry,” he repeated.
“Yes, I know. That’s all right,” said Birds quietly. “How could you have
told? Dear old Grannie! She always lived with us, you know.”
Badsley knew nothing of the sort, but his face grew long with penitence.
“Well, I can’t say any more,” he remarked. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
Birds was leaning his elbows on the table, with his head in his hands.
He spoke in a choked voice.
“Don’t think anything more about it, old chap,” he said. “’Twasn’t your
fault.”
Badsley got up.
“Well, good-night, people,” he said.
“Stop a minute. As you have talked about Grannie, you might like to hear
more about her. It wasn’t really such a blow, because she was
eighty-five, and had cancer in the pit of her stomach. Also staggers.”
A faint conjecture dawned in Badsley’s mind.
“I say, are you ragging?” he asked.
“Of course I am. I haven’t had a grandmother for years, and I suppose I
shall never get one now. I began too late. I can’t think what Sphodrias
was about.”
Badsley stumbled over Jim, who was loudly cackling.
“I feel exactly as if I was in a lunatic asylum,” he said.
“You are: in the room where the violent cases are put. This is the
padded room.”
Birds squinted horribly, and with his beautiful mouth open and his
tongue hanging out, began to count the fingers of one hand with those of
the other. With his yellow hair falling over his forehead and his
college cap perched on the back of his head, and his insane attire, he
looked madder than anything in Bedlam.
“Oh, stop it,” said Badders. “You’ll give me nightmare.”
“I’m one myself. But as we’ve disposed of my grandmother, who is she? Is
she a shop-girl or a flower-girl or a barmaid?”
“None. She’s a lady.”
“I see. Tobacconist’s girl was a perfect lady: you often told me so,”
said Jim. “Of the two, I think the imperfect kind is the best. They
aren’t so damned refined.”
“You two fellows are absolutely idiotic,” said Badders. “There’s no
point in anything unless a girl comes into it somehow. I shall go to
bed.”
“Do,” said Birds cordially. “And mind you either slam the door or leave
it open. Open or slammed: don’t shut it properly whatever happens.”
After this Badsley could hardly do less than slam the door first, and
then throw it wide open. So Jim threw a cushion at it which shut it
again.
“Badders is tedious,” he said, getting up from the floor. “He can only
think of one subject in the whole world. Narrow, I call it. What’s the
next thing to do?”
The two went to the window of these rooms on the ground floor and leaned
out, sniffing the warm night air. The sky was moonless but very clear,
and a host of stars made that amazing twilight which is like no other in
the world for infinite suggestive softness. Instead of the blacks and
whites of moonlight, the world was painted in myriad shades of browns
from the darkest hues of sepia where shadow lay over black, to a colour
nearly yellow, where the rim of white stone round the fountain in the
middle of the court stood open to the full galaxy of starlight. To the
right the openwork of the stone screen that separated the court from the
street outside let in the white garishness of the incandescent lamps,
but it did not penetrate far, and the great windows and pinnacles of the
chapel opposite, and the long block of the Fellows’ Buildings to the
left were all submerged in this dim brown sea of starlight. There was a
flower-box along the window from which they leaned, and a faint smell of
musk and mignonette wandered into the room thick with tobacco smoke.
“Breath of air before bed, don’t you think?” said Jim. “Come on!”
“Yes, just as far as the bridge. Lend me a coat, will you? I should be
proctorized for only having a cap and gown, shouldn’t I?”
“Probably. There’s a blazer.”
* * * * *
The two boys strolled into the night arm-in-arm and walked silently out
on to the huge square of grass behind Fellows’ Buildings. A heavy dew
had fallen after this hot day, and the surface of the grass was covered
with a shimmering grey mantle of moisture, in which their steps made
dark rents. Birds, as became him, whistled gently under his breath, but
for a time neither of them broke the secret sense of intimate
companionship by speech. No breeze stirred in the towers of the elms to
the left; even the willow by the side of the bridge had no movement in
its slim pendulous fingers of leaf, and the reflecting surface of the
slow stream was unbroken by any wandering ripple. Once or twice a
feeding fish made a dim pattern of concentric circles on the water, and
still in silence, Birds struck a match to light a final cigarette.
Though the night was so windless, he shielded it in his hands, and the
light showed through the flesh of his fingers as through the walls of
some rosy cave. For the moment his face was vividly illuminated, then,
as he dropped the match over the parapet, it was swallowed back into the
darkness again. From below, after an interval, came the faint hiss of
the extinguished match.
The light close to his face had dazzled Jim a little, and after it had
gone out he still had before his eyes, faintly swimming in the darkness,
the semblance of Birds’ head.
“I can see you still,” he said, “though it’s dark. Why’s that? Oh, now
you’ve gone.”
Birds drew on his cigarette.
“No, I haven’t,” he said. “I’m here all right. Ah, listen!”
Early though it was in the summer, this hot spell of weather had set the
birds mating, and suddenly from the elms across the field beyond the
bridge, there sounded the bubbling song of some love-entranced
nightingale. Liquid and clear it rose and fell, with all spring behind
it and all the promise of summer to follow. Four long notes it gave, and
broke into a torrent of jubilant melody. It rose to the height of its
ecstasy and suddenly stopped.
“Good bird,” said Jim appreciatively. “I call that sense.”
“Yes. Glad we came down here. But I’m glad Badders didn’t come too. It
would have reminded him of that wench in the tobacconist’s shop, and
he’d have told us about her bosom or her ankles, or something. Poor
Badders; I do hate sentimental stuff. Lord! Wasn’t it funny about my
grandmother?”
“Yes; you see, Badders prides himself on always being in love. He isn’t
an atom; he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t care for the girl; he
only cares for her nose or her arms. If he was in love he couldn’t jaw
about it.”
Birds spat neatly over the parapet.
“I wonder. Perhaps there are different ways of being in love. But what a
gay dog! Do you remember him at the fair in Midsummer Common, two girls,
one on each knee and another round his neck. Something female he wants,
and he doesn’t care what it is.”
“I know; that’s what’s so puzzling. I could understand if it was one
girl he wanted, but it isn’t. Any old thing will do, as long as it’s
young.”
“‘Well, I suppose it’s natur’. She’s a rum ’un, is Natur’,’ said Mr.
Squeers. Badders is asleep by this time, dreaming of them all. I’d
sooner be awake, leaning over this bridge.”
“Same here,” said Jim. “But Badders is a sensual sentimentalist. That’s
what he is.”
Jim’s arm was conveniently laid out along the parapet, so Birds rested
his chin on it.
“What do we do to-morrow?” he asked.
“You play for the ‘Varsity.”
“Blow it, so I do. I don’t blow it at all, really. I’m frightfully
pleased that they’re playing me. But one can’t say that out loud, so one
has to say one doesn’t care. The pity of it is that I shall get out
first ball, and spend the rest of the day in missing catches. I wonder
why I’m such a dam’ bad field?”
“Ask another. But do make a lot of runs. I so much prefer that you
should.”
“And to think that it was you who put me into the eleven at school.”
“It was kind of me,” said Jim. “If I’d known you’d have gone ahead of
me like this, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I suppose not. You’re a jealous devil,” said Birds, speaking muffled
against Jim’s arm.
“I am. Are we going to bed to-night?”
Birds yawned.
“I suppose we might. It’s about two in the morning, isn’t it?”
“There or thereabouts. Come on, you lazy hog.”
Birds threw an arm round Jim’s neck.
“Lazy I am; hog I am not,” he observed. “Jim, what’s to _happen_ to us?
What’s it all going to be about? Shall we always go on like this?”
“I hope so. Don’t you? I don’t see what else I want.”
“No, but Cambridge will come to an end, and we shall go our ways, I
suppose. Some day we shall meet each other, and find that we’ve drifted
away. You’ll be father of one family, and I shall be father of another,
and we shall look at each other and wonder if it really could have been
we who sat on the bridge at midnight or a good deal after, and didn’t
want anything else.”
“Rot,” said Jim.
“I wish I thought it was.”
“But it is. Can’t explain it properly, but I know it is. Perhaps----”
Jim thought a moment, as they drifted on to the grass again.
“It’s like this,” he said. “Whatever happens to us afterwards, this, the
fact of you and me being friends, will be part of us. It’s built into
us; we couldn’t get rid of it if we wanted to. We should have been other
sorts of fellows if we hadn’t tumbled into each other, but now we’re
just the sort we are.”
They had come back on to the tracks they had made in the dew on their
way down to the bridge, and Jim pointed at them.
“It’s like that,” he said. “We’ve walked right away off the grass and
yet we come back to where we were when we went out. It’ll always be like
that; there’ll always be the old tracks waiting for us. When you’re
seventy-nine and I’m eighty and we’re both deaf and blind and rheumatic,
there’ll be the tracks there just the same. ’Fraid I’ve been jawing.”
“Well, what’s the harm?” said Birds.
“Bad habit to get into.”
They rambled back without further speech into Jim’s room, where Birds
discarded his friend’s blazer and collected his own torn shirt.
“I shall have a good eye to-morrow,” he said, “because I’ve sat up so
late, and smoked so much. The way to be thoroughly off colour is to go
to bed early and have a long night. That makes you drowsy all next day.”
He nodded at Jim by way of good-night and went across the passage to his
room just opposite.
* * * * *
With Birds playing for Cambridge, it was obvious that Jim would have to
spend the whole of the next two days in the pavilion at the University
ground, and deny himself the pleasure of attending any lectures which
might have been provided for him by the College authorities. It was
therefore a little unfortunate that he met his tutor proceeding in cap
and gown to the lecture-room next morning, exactly at the moment when he
himself came out into the court with a straw-hat and a pleasant holiday
aspect.
Mr. Butler had the appearance of a butler, which was a very happy
coincidence, an air of impenetrable respectability and mutton-chop
whiskers. He prided himself on the possession of a sarcastic tongue,
the effect of which on his victims he believed to be as withering as a
sirocco wind. For the present, however, he contented himself with an
awful glance at Jim, for his sarcasm had to be carefully prepared. But
since Birds had just telephoned down from the cricket ground that the
University had won the toss and that he himself was going in third
wicket, it was no use to dream of attending Mr. Butler’s discourse on
Cicero’s essay on friendship, for the real thing called him.
* * * * *
The University had made a disastrous start when he arrived at the
ground, and had lost two wickets for eleven runs. Jim made his way to
the pavilion and there found Birds in a very clammy condition of nerves.
“Oh, hell, I wish you hadn’t come up,” he said. “I hate your being there
when I make a fool of myself.”
“Remedy lies with you,” said Jim. “Don’t do it.”
“Can’t help it; my eye’s all wobbly. Why the deuce didn’t you let me go
to bed in decent time last night?”
“Go on, say anything you like if it makes you feel better,” said Jim.
“It doesn’t, it makes me feel worse. Hell, there’s Tobin out.”
“Buck up, Birds,” said his friend.
Birds waited till the dejected batsman had entered the pavilion, put his
cap on the seat, and took up his bat.
“Soon be back,” he observed morosely.
“No you won’t. I shan’t see you again till lunch.”
“Oh,” said Birds, with a wealth of incredulity in his voice.
He had a word with the outcoming batsman, who was captain of the
Cambridge team, and was told to keep steady at all costs. But when your
knees are trembling and the inside of your hands is damp with the dews
of anxiety, such advice does not seem to be within the spheres of
practical usefulness. And with a sinking heart that for the moment was
far out of the range of any encouraging influence, he went forth on that
awful pilgrimage to the scene of execution.
There ensued two or three extremely trying minutes. The wicket-keep
appealed for a catch at the wickets off the first ball he received, in
accents of supreme confidence. But the umpire happened to disagree with
him. The next was a long-hop which Birds slashed at and completely
missed, the third beat him as completely, and must have grazed his
leg-stump. And if there was a thoroughly unhappy Pythias out there,
there was an even more miserable Damon in the pavilion. Jim wished he
was anywhere but here, watching this deplorable performance; had it been
possible, he would have been back in the lecture-room, listening to
Butler’s droning interpretation of Cicero’s remarks on friendship;
anything was better than seeing his friend behave as if he had never had
a bat in his hands before.
Then quite suddenly, while Birds was waiting for the return of the ball,
that had so nearly dismissed him, Jim’s aspect of the situation struck
him. Up till this moment he had only been conscious of his own
nervousness; now as by a flash he realized how Jim must be hating it,
and that would never do. And he ceased to wriggle his toes inside his
cricket boots, and awaited the last ball of the over. It was a
half-volley, just outside the leg-stump. About four seconds afterwards
Jim picked it up from the seat on which it had fallen in the pavilion,
and threw it out to square-leg. He gave two or three wild yells, and a
long sigh of relief. Never was there a more confident shot than that;
nobody in a state of twittering nerves could possibly have played it. He
made the sound deduction that Birds had suddenly pulled himself
together.
As the morning wore on, the pavilion began to fill up; Tobin came and
talked for a little, in a state of the highest disgust at himself, and
soon Badsley also appeared. All the time the total on the telegraph
board mounted with rapidity, for Birds was playing with that swift,
effortless precision that made him the prettiest bat in the world to
watch, if only he happened to be making runs. He had a trick of making
difficult bowling appear perfectly easy, and put it away to all corners
of the field. By one flick of his slim wrist he cut the ball late
between point and slip, by another almost more imperceptible he sent it
racing behind square-leg to the pavilion boundary. And as Jim had
prophesied, he did not have word with him again till he came across the
field at lunch-time with eighty-two to his credit. But his innings were
worth more than that to his side, for going in at a critical moment he
had stopped the rot which had begun to set in.
There was the added excitement for Jim after lunch of seeing Birds make
the necessary eighteen runs to complete his century, and it is certain
that this engrossed him much more than any consideration of what the
‘Varsity total might be. Birds began by hitting three fours off the
first over he received, and then a three and a two brought his total up
to ninety-nine. He then skied a ball so high that it looked as if it
really might be going to soar beyond the power of the earth’s
attraction, and become a new and sporting planet. But it failed quite to
reach the required altitude, and after a pause that seemed to last many
minutes he was caught at long on, and retired amid rounds of applause
and sympathetic yellings.
“Bloody ass,” said Jim to him, as he came into the pavilion.
“Rather. Did you ever see a ball go so high? Hullo, there’s Badders. Why
not amorously engaged, Badders? Lord, I have been enjoying myself, and I
want an enormous drink, and why should not the young Cantab have one?
One or two, several, in fact, as the Red King said----”
“’Twasn’t, it was the White Knight.”
“I daresay. As long as it got said, what’s the odds? Ninety-nine; that’s
what they tell you to say when they think you’ve got consumption. Shall
I have tea first and three bottles of ginger-beer afterwards, or the
other way round? Good-bye.”