THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE
To say that Acton was upset by our visit and our conversation and Bourne's
ultimatum would be beside the mark; he was furious, and when he had cooled
down somewhat, his anger settled into a long, steady stretch of hate
towards us both, but especially towards Bourne. He simmered over many
plans for getting "even" with him, and when he had finally mapped out a
course he proceeded, as some one says, "diligently to ensue it;" for Acton
was not of that kind to be "awkward" as occasion arose, but there was
method in all his schemes.
It so happened that Worcester was captain of Biffen's house, and also of
Biffen's "footer" team. My own opinion was that poor old Worcester would
have given a lot to be out of such a house as Biffen's, and I know he
utterly despised himself for having in a moment of inexplicable weakness
consented to be permanent lead to Biffen's awful crowd on the Acres. He
died a thousand deaths after each (usual) annihilation. Worcester and
Acton had nothing in common, and, except that they were in the same house
and form, they would not probably have come to nodding terms. Worcester,
of course, looked up to the magnificent "footer" player as the average
player looks up to the superlative. After the first game of the season,
when Acton had turned out in all his glory, Dick had thereupon offered to
resign his captaincy, even pressing, with perhaps suspicious eagerness,
Acton's acceptance of that barren honour. But Acton did not bite. Captains
were supposed to turn out pretty well every day with their strings, and
Acton was not the sort of fellow to have his hands tied in any way. So he
had gently declined.
"No, old man. Wouldn't dream of ousting you. You'll get a good team out of
Biffen's yet. Plenty of raw material."
"That's just it," said Worcester, naively; "it is so jolly raw."
"Well, cook it, old man."
"It only makes hash," said Worcester, with a forlorn smile at his own
joke.
But now Acton thought that the captaincy of Biffen's might dovetail into
his schemes for the upsetting of Bourne, and therefore Dick's proposal was
to be reconsidered. Thus it was that Worcester got a note from Acton
asking him to breakfast.
Worcester came, and his eyes visibly brightened when he spotted Acton's
table, for there was more than a little style about Acton's catering, and
Worcester had a weakness for the square meal. Acton's fag, Grim, was busy
with the kettle, and there was as reinforcement in Dick's special honour,
young Poulett, St. Amory's champion egg-poacher, sustaining his big
reputation in a large saucepan. Worcester sank into his chair with a sigh
of satisfaction at sight of little Poulett; he was to be in clover,
evidently.
"That's right, Worcester. That _is_ the easiest chair. Got that last
egg on the toast, Poulett? You're a treasure, and so I'll write your
mamma. Tea or coffee, Dick? Coffee for Worcester, Grim, tea for me. Pass
that cream to Worcester, and you've forgotten the knife for the pie.
You're a credit to Sharpe's, Poulett; but remember that you've been
poaching for Biffen's footer captain. That's something, anyhow. Don't
grin, Poulett; it's bad form. Going? To Bourne's, eh? I can recommend you,
though it would be no recommendation to him. You can cut, too, Grim, and
clear at 9.30. See the door catches."
Grim scuttled after the renowned egg-poacher, and Worcester and Acton were
left alone. When Worcester was fed, and had pushed back his chair, Acton
broached the business to which the breakfast was the preliminary.
"Fact is, Worcester, I've been thinking how it is that Biffen's is the
slackest house in the place."
"Oh! it's got such a plucky reputation, you know. The kids weep when
they're put down for Biffen's. Give a dog a bad name--"
"But why the bad name?"
"Dunno! Perhaps it's Biffen. I think so, anyhow. At any rate, there's not
been a fellow from the house in the Lord's eleven or in the footer eleven,
and in the schools Biffen's crowd always close the rear. By the way, how
did you come among our rout?"
"I think mater knew Biffen; that's the explanation."
"Rather rough on you."
"Don't feel anything, really, Worcester."
"Well, Biffen has got a diabolical knack of picking up all the loose ends
of the school; all the impossible fellows gravitate here: why, look at our
Dervishes!" (Dervish was the slang for foreigners at St. Amory's.)
"We've certainly got more than our share of colour."
"That's Biffen's all the world over," said Dick, with intense heat; "you
could match any colour between an interesting orange and a real jet black
among our collection. Biffen simply can't resist a nigger. He must have
him. What they come to the place at all for licks me. Can't the
missionaries teach 'em to spell?"
"_La haute politique_," suggested Acton.
"Of Sarawack or Timbuctoo?" said Worcester, with scorn. "Bet my boots that
Borneo one's governor went head-hunting in his time, and the darkest
African one's knows what roasted man is."
Acton laughed, for a nigger was to Worcester as a red rag to a bull. "St.
Amory's for niggers!" Dick would say with intense scorn.
"Anyhow," said Acton, "I think there's no need for us to be quite so
slack."
"You'll pull us up a bit?" said Dick, with genuine admiration.
"Thanks. But I meant the whole house generally."
"Not much good. We're Biffen's, that never did nor never shall, etc."
"I don't know. There's sixty of us, barring your niggers; we ought to get
eleven to look at a football with a business eye out of that lot, you
know."
"We ought to, but don't."
"We ought to do something in the schools too."
"We ought to, but don't, though Raven is in for the Perry Exhibition.
Guess he won't pull it off, though."
"We'll see about that, too," said Acton. "As for the niggers--"
"Oh, never mind them!" burst in Worcester. "Without humbug, Acton, do you
really want our house to move a bit?"
"Rather!"
"Well, then, consent to captain our footer eleven and we give ourselves a
chance, for I can't make the fellows raise a gallop at any price, and I
somehow think you can. Have a try. If you are sick of it at Christmas,
I'll come in again; honour bright. It isn't too good-natured of me to ask
you to pull Biffen's out of the mud, but you're the only fellow to do it
if it can be done. Will you?"
"You wouldn't mind resigning?"
"By Jove, no!" said Worcester, precipitately.
"Don't mention it. Not at all, old man, not at all."
"Well, I've been thinking that, if you didn't mind, I'd like to try my
hand on our crowd; though, since you don't move 'em, there can't be much
chance for me to do anything smart."
"That doesn't follow, for you aren't me, old man."
"Then I'll have a shot at it."
Worcester grasped Acton's hand, as the French say, "with emotion."
"But the house will have to elect me, you know; perhaps they'd fancy Raven
as captain. He can play decently, and they know him."
"Well, Biffen's are a dense lot, but I'm hanged if even their stupidity
would do a thing like that. They've seen you play, haven't they?"
"Thanks. Fact is, Dick, I feel a bit bored by the patronage of Taylor's
and Merishall's, and Sharpe's and Corker's, and all the rest of the
houses."
"Oh! Biffen's laid himself out for that, you must see."
"I don't fancy Bourne's sneers and Hodgson's high stilts."
"Haven't noticed either," said Dick.
"H'm!" said Acton, rather nettled by Dick's dry tone. "I have. As for the
niggers--"
"The other houses despise us on their account. We're the Dervish Camp to
the rest."
"As for the niggers, they shall do something for Biffen's too," said
Acton, rather thoughtfully.
"You mean in the sing-songs? Well, they'll spare the burnt cork
certainly."
"Well, that's an idea too," said Acton, laughing, "but not the one I had.
That will keep."
Worcester might have some curiosity to know what Acton's idea was, but he
wasn't going to inquire anything about the niggers.
"It's awfully brickish of you, Worcester," said Acton, as Grim was heard
trotting up the corridor "to stand down."
"Not at all; the sacrifice is on your altar."
"Then _allons_. Here's Grim knocking, and I've to see Corker at 9.40.
You'll excuse me."
Grim came in and commenced to clear away, and the two sallied out.