Luke Harwood in the Picture
British weather is notorious for its very quick changes. Thus, the day
after the fruitless burglar hunt, the Captain of Foxenby was sitting in
warm sunshine on the verge of the Shrubbery when the Prefect of
Holbeck's House strolled across to condole with him.
"At the risk of seeming to rub it in, Forge, I want to tender my
sincere sympathy," said Harwood, sitting beside him. "In your shoes
I'd be puzzled what to do."
"Thanks--yes. I'm pretty well bunkered, Harwood. Unconsciously, by
your kindness in collecting all those subs., you did us a bad turn;
they all went."
"And by now, doubtless, have been spent on a fuddle in the Thieves'
Kitchen," Harwood agreed. "More of my mistaken zeal coming back on me!
The money's gone--Kismet! No subscriptions, no paper!"
The captain turned sharply round to stare at the Prefect. "What do you
mean, Harwood? 'No paper!' Are you thinking, then, that there'll be
no _Rooke's House Rag_ after this?"
Luke gave his pleasant laugh. "Well, it's rather a natural inference,
Forge. Paper costs money. Printing-ink ditto. If the money's in the
Thieves' Kitchen it can't be spent here. Ergo, you are justified in
ceasing publication."
He felt annoyed during this speech to find himself getting somewhat red
in the face beneath the questioning scrutiny of Dick's clear eyes.
There was something about what he had said which evidently did not
appeal to the Captain.
"I say, Harwood, please don't suggest a get-out that I'm sure you
wouldn't adopt yourself! Take the Foxes' money and give them nothing
in return! Impossible!"
"But you didn't take the brass--the burglars pinched it. Don't be too
straitlaced, Forge, for your own sake. Men of business 'wind up' when
their funds are stolen, and nobody blames them. It's simply Fate!"
"Oh, thanks for the tip, Harwood! Perhaps I am over-squeamish, but I
took a quarter's subscription from Foxenby in exchange for a
fortnightly mag., and I mean, by hook or by crook, to deliver the
goods."
Harwood jumped up and shot out his hand impulsively. There seemed to
be a troublesome lump in his throat as he spoke.
"Bravo, old fellow! You're top-hole. Keep the flag flying by all
means, and if there's anything I can do to help; any--er--little
loan----"
"Oh, by Jove, no thanks, Harwood! Awfully decent of you, but this is
entirely my own show."
Contrary to his custom, Harwood did not efface himself this time. He
resumed his seat beside Dick and talked in quiet tones of other things,
apparently oblivious of a growing disturbance in the shrubbery behind
him--a row which closely concerned him, too, because the Juniors of his
House were foremost in making it.
It was not now the old squabble between Merry Men and Squirms, to which
the Prefects, by common consent, turned a deaf ear. On this occasion
the Squirms had it all to themselves. They were "ragging" somebody,
and the shrieks of their victim were agonized enough to suggest a
lynching.
"Are your youngsters killing a pig this morning, Harwood?" the Captain
inquired, uneasily. "Rather more din than usual, what? Shouldn't like
the Old Man to hear it in his present raw state."
Harwood looked languidly round at the heaving mass in the shrubbery.
"It'll die down," he said. "Like Bo-peep's lost sheep, they're better
left alone. Let me see, what was I saying? Oh, about that Cup
re-play, old man----"
He got no further, for at that moment the dishevelled victim of the
Squirms' horseplay burst from the shrubbery and fastened his dirty
hands frantically on the Prefect's knees.
"Oh, Harwood, please, they're murdering me--murdering me, I say. Send
them back--take their sticks from them. I'm beaten black and blue!"
The boy's fat, unwholesome cheeks shook like those of an overfed man.
His small eyes protruded with fear. Though bearing no visible sign of
ill-usage, he looked the picture of abject terror.
"Get up, Mawdster--take your filthy paws off my breeks!" Harwood
commanded, in disgust.
"But--but aren't you going to do anything for me, Harwood?"
"Yes--I'm going to cane some of the dirt off your hands if you aren't
inside Holbeck's within half a minute," said Harwood, inexorably.
This was an order which few Juniors would have dared to disobey, but
the trembling boy, after a nervous glance back at the Squirms
(discreetly silent now), stretched out an imploring hand to the Captain.
"Oh, please, Forge, won't you protect me?" he whined. "Harwood never
will. He doesn't care if they kill me!"
Here, indeed, was rank rebellion--open defiance of a prefect, and
insult heaped upon it. For the second time, Peter Mawdster had
committed the gross offence of appealing to the Captain of the School
over the head of his own prefect.
Dick said nothing at all. With a nod to Harwood, he rose to go.
"Hop into my study at once, Mawdster," said Harwood furiously. "As
you're determined to seek trouble, you shall have it--six on each hand."
This incident--trivial perhaps in itself--left an unpleasant impression
on Dick's mind. That a cheeky youngster from another House should
twice have tried to secure his protection was irritating enough, but
Harwood's method of handling the shrubbery trouble did not strike him
as possessing the wisdom of Solomon. Whatever Mawdster had done to
deserve his unpopularity, in bullying him so badly the Squirms had
earned punishment. Yet the Prefect of Holbeck's House, without
inquiry, caned the victim and let the tormentors go free!
"Is that bias or just an error of judgment?" Dick asked of Roger, to
whom he confided the details of the occasion.
"I'd better not voice an opinion, Dick! Where Luke Harwood is
concerned, possibly I'm one-eyed, too!"
"But wouldn't you, in my place, have interfered?"
"Emphatically, no. If anybody in Holbeck's House has a grievance
against its prefect, he can report it to Mr. Holbeck. There is a
further Court of Appeal--to the Headmaster himself."
"Well put, Roger, K.C.! You have freed my mind. I want nothing more
on it than is already there, I can assure you."
He was about to tell Roger what Harwood had said about ceasing the
publication of the _Rag_, but a second thought stopped his tongue. He
did not himself question the sincerity of Harwood's suggestion, but he
felt instinctively that Roger would. He feared that Roger, always
prejudiced against _The Foxonian's_ editor, would say that the wish was
father to the thought--that the early death of _The Rooke's House Rag_,
leaving _The Foxonian_ once more alone in the field, would just suit
Harwood's book. So he changed the subject for another.
"I've got my _exeat_, Roger, and shall cycle to Moston to see the
Fairtype Press manager this afternoon."
"Good luck!" said Roger. "Hope he'll be decent about it."
Head scholar of Rooke's House though he was, neck-and-neck rival of
Luke Harwood in the race for the Christmas prizes, Roger made mistakes
that afternoon which caused amused astonishment in class. Work could
not hold him. His thoughts were elsewhere. Heart and mind he was with
Dick Forge in the Moston printing-office, wherein much that affected
their reputation at Foxenby was in the balance to-day.
What if that fair-spoken printing manager declined to wait for his
money, or, worse still, refused to print off another number of the Rag?
Luke Harwood had already announced a "special term-end number" of _The
Foxonian_--how humiliating it would be if no _Rag_ appeared as a
counter-blast to it!
Yet, if such a downfall threatened them, Roger was powerless to avert
it. His people were in poor circumstances; only by dint of winning
scholarships could Roger keep himself at Foxenby. The small burden of
his scanty savings had been lifted from him by the burglars, and Dick
had been relieved of far more. No wonder Roger had no appetite for tea
that night! His eyes were pools of troubled light as he raised them to
greet Dick on the latter's return.
"Come, dear old fiddle-face, cheer up!" laughed Dick. "All's well!"
"Dick, I can see the good news oozing out of you. Bravo--you've worked
the oracle!"
"Easily!" said Dick. "That printer's heart must be all aswim with the
milk of human kindness. It seems he'd read about the burglary in the
newspaper, which was obviously hard up for 'copy', because it mentioned
us by name as co-editors of the _Rag_, and made far more sympathetic
fuss over our loss than it did over the Head's. Well, Mr. Printer put
out his hand, said how sorry he was and all that, and told me to lose
no sleep--he'd do his bit in the publication department if I cared to
carry on."
"Why, what a brick! Who'd have thought it from the looks of him? At
first I considered him rather soapily insincere."
"You're a funny old ox, Roger--always suspicious of everybody!"
"Except of you, old sport," Roger replied. "Didn't he want a guarantee
of some sort?"
"None whatever. Accepted without demur my promise to pay up in full
next term. Made me blush half-way down my back by saying he could see
I was the soul of honour. And I can manage it quite O.K. by the
exercise of strict economy. It means mortgaging a year's allowance at
least, and docking every kind of luxury, but who cares for that if the
dear old _Rag_ goes on?"
"Nobody--three cheers!" cried Roger. "Out with the ink and paper, you
jolly old editor chap! I'm going to present your next number with a
burlesque of the burglary, just to show the school how lightly we carry
misfortune!"