MISHAPS
After I had been to my rooms and had a bath I went round to Oriel to
see Fred, but he was not in his rooms, so I left a note to tell him
that he must come to luncheon with me. Then I rushed back to St.
Cuthbert's and went to hear Mr. Edwardes lecturing. I missed the
beginning of the lecture, and I might just as well have stayed away
altogether, for Mr. Edwardes asked me to speak to him at the end of it,
though what he meant was that he was going to speak while I was to
listen. Grave things were happening, at least I thought them grave,
and Mr. Edwardes had nothing whatever to do with them. While he talked
to me I was trying by a process of mental arithmetic to discover how
much money I had to my credit in the bank; the voice which I heard
seemed to me to belong to bygone ages, and I was so worried by actual
and present facts that I could not screw up a vestige of interest in
antiquities. I know that it was always my fate to arouse either the
irony or the anger of my tutor, for to other men he was far more
pleasant than he was to me, but I could not help thinking of him as
representative of a system which could never influence me in the least.
He soon discovered that I was paying no attention to him, and I suppose
that I must have got most vigorously on his nerves, for he really
became quite humanly angry, I must have been nearer to an understanding
with him at that moment than I had ever been. But when his rage
abated, his lips snapped and the thunderbolts ceased. He went on too
long and became sarcastic again, as if ashamed of being properly angry,
and I left him with the usual hopeless feeling that we should never
understand each other.
I went into the common room as I was crossing the quad, and before I
had been there two minutes Dennison came in with Lambert and two or
three other men of their set. No one else was in the room except
Murray, who was reading, and absolutely refused to talk to me about
Edwardes, so I turned over various papers until Dennison asked me if I
did not think our eight was quite the most comically bad boat I had
ever seen.
"The whole college is going to the deuce," I answered.
"You look as if you were up late last night, and have got a fair old
head on this morning," Dennison declared.
"I haven't been to bed at all, if you want to know," I said.
"Going to the deuce with the rest of the college, well, you have the
consolation of being quite the most amusing man in it."
I think I was fool enough to say that I was not amusing.
"Not consciously," Dennison replied, "but I get more fun from you than
from anybody, and when you are in a serious mood you are the most comic
man I know. He's delicious, isn't he, Lambert?"
"If you can't see the funny side of our eight, you must be a madman,"
Lambert said to me.
"We used to be head of the river, and now we can't row for sour
apples," Dennison chuckled, "the thing's a perfect pantomime."
"And you are the stupidest clown in it," I said suddenly, for although
I did not want to lose my temper the "sour apples" expression, on the
top of being told that I had "a fair old head," compelled me to say
something.
"One to Marten," Lambert said, as he stalked about the room; they were
a most trying lot to have anything to do with. Everything they said
was just the thing that made me want to get away from them, and
Dennison had told me once that he considered conversation a very fine
art.
It would have been wise of me to have gone away without waiting for
Dennison's attempts to get level with me, but I felt like staying where
I was.
"Poor old fellow," Dennison groaned, "he sits up all night, and then
his conscience smites him and his head aches, and he thinks the college
is going to the deuce and is to be saved from perdition by his being
rude. What you want, old chap, is a sedlitz powder; go and have one,
and you won't be so gloomy, you may even smile when you see our eight
bumped to-night."
"You laugh and jeer at our boat when it goes down, but I'll bet you
would be the first to kick up a row if we ever make any bumps again,
though you don't care whether we go to the bottom of the river and stop
there," I answered.
"I don't see that it matters," Lambert put in, "and I would much rather
be bottom than bottom but one or even two, there's something dignified
about being absolutely last."
"Take a sedlitz powder and become a philosopher," Dennison suggested.
"I always thought your philosophy was founded on something confoundedly
odd," I returned, "and now I know all about it."
"I suppose you think that very witty," he replied, and he almost lost
his temper, "but though I may not be much of a philosopher I am a
first-rate doctor, so when a man wants medicine I tell him so."
"Thanks," I said.
"You are on the wrong track," he went on, beginning to smile again,
"the wretched school-boy notion of being sick to death when you are
beaten at anything is all humbug here, the thing to do is to laugh
whatever happens, and to-day you look as if you hadn't a laugh left in
you."
"That's sitting up all night," Lambert said, "you can't laugh all day
and night."
Then I told them that if they wanted to see the college perfectly
useless at everything they must be the biggest fools in Oxford, and I
appealed to Murray to support me, because Dennison never spoke to him
if he could help doing so.
"It is much easier to laugh than it is to row," was all Murray said,
and he went out of the room at once.
"That man's the most complete prig in the 'Varsity," Dennison declared,
"and as long as a college has a lot of men like him in it nothing else
matters. We don't want smugs here."
"Murray," I said solidly, "is neither a prig nor a smug, and as you
have never said half-a-dozen words to him you can't possibly know
anything about him."
"A smug is always labelled," he answered, "and that man looks one from
his hat to his boots, don't you think so, Lambert?"
Of course Lambert thought so, and I, having already said much more than
I intended, was just going to say a lot more, when a whole crowd of men
came into the room and saved me from the impossible task of making
Dennison believe that he could make a mistake.
I went back to my rooms and found Fred waiting for me, but from the way
I banged my note-book on the table and threw my gown into a corner, I
should not think that he expected me to be very pleasant. Fred,
however, understood me, and it seems to me that I have always been very
lucky in having one friend who never tried to make out that I was in a
good temper when I was in a bad one. Some people when they suspect
that you are angry ask silly little questions just to find out if their
suspicious are true, but Fred always left me alone. He simply took no
notice of me at all, and though that was very annoying, it was not half
as bad as a string of questions or a lot of stupid remarks about things
which I did not want to hear. I banged about the room tremendously,
but Fred went on reading _The Sportsman_ and waited for me to become
fit to speak to.
At last I threw myself into a chair close to him.
"For goodness' sake stop reading that blessed paper," I said; "why I
take the wretched thing I don't know, who cares whether Kent beats
Lancashire or whether Cambridge makes four hundred against the M.C.C."
"You and I do," Fred answered, and tossed _The Sportsman_ on to the
table.
"I have been waiting here for half-an-hour to hear what has happened,
but you seem to be in such an infernally bad temper that I should think
I had better go. There is a very fair chance of a row if I stay here,
for I can't stand much to-day," he went on, when I had picked up the
paper to see who had made the runs for Cambridge.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
"Everything."
"Did you have a good ball?"
"Perfectly rotten."
"Did Nina get plenty of partners?"
"Crowds."
"And you didn't feel like going on the 'Cher' this morning?"
"I have had two pros bowling to me," he answered, "I was bowled about a
dozen times. Besides I wasn't asked to go on the 'Cher.'"
"Nina and Mrs. Faulkner said all sorts of things about me last night?"
"Who told you so?"
"They did."
"Sometimes Nina's temper isn't any better than yours," he said. "What
happened to you? How's Owen?"
"Owen is very bad," I answered, and while we had lunch I told him what
I had been doing. "In a few hours I have made a fool of myself three
times," I said, "I've promised to pay for Owen, and I have had rows
with both Edwardes and Dennison. This college is going to blazes, and
it is men like Edwardes, who is a great lump of ice, and Dennison, who
just wants to be a blood in his own miserable little way, who will be
responsible. Edwardes never cares what happens, and Dennison is
collecting a set round him who can do nothing but wear waistcoats, eat
and drink. You have all the luck in belonging to a college where men
don't become bloods by drinking hard, and where everybody takes an
interest in the place. St. Cuthbert's will never get a decent fresher
to come to it if we don't do something to make it alive again."
Fred stretched himself and yawned, all the life seemed to have gone out
of him in some way.
"You wouldn't like to belong to a college which has been something and
is on the road to be nothing," I said.
"It takes a lot to ruin a college," he answered; "every one knows that
St. Cuthbert's is a good enough place, and one man like Dennison won't
make much difference."
"Won't he? you don't know him as well as I do. He'd ruin the Bank of
England if he could be the only director for a year."
"But there are heaps of other men besides him."
"No one seems to care; we just live on our reputation, and when
Dennison is no longer a fresher he will wreck the whole place, he is
clever enough to do it."
"You are in a villainous temper and exaggerate everything," Fred said.
"You know that Oriel is all right, and you don't care what happens to
us," I retorted, and then Fred woke up and we very nearly had a
terrific row.
The remembrance of this day still makes me feel uncomfortable, and I am
quite certain that Fred was the only man in Oxford who could have put
up with me. I simply walked from quarrel to quarrel, and I seemed to
want each one to be more violent than the last. Now I come to think of
it, it is possible that Dennison's advice was sound; I must certainly
have needed something which I did not take, but after all I think a
long sleep was probably what I wanted. At any rate I was a most
unpleasant companion, and Fred told me afterwards that he had not known
me for so many years, without finding out that I could be thoroughly
unreasonable when I had a really bad day.
Undoubtedly that day was a very bad one, and when any one stays up all
night I advise him to go to bed during the next day, just to save
trouble.
We had arrived at a state of silence, for I had nothing left to say,
and Fred refused to say anything, when Jack Ward strolled into the
room, as if he had nothing more than usual to do, and had just come to
waste his time and mine. He must have tried to make what is called a
dramatic entry, for most people who were in his condition would have
hurried up for all they were worth. He was wet through from head to
foot, his collar hung round his neck like a dirty rag, and his whole
appearance reminded me of a scarecrow which has suffered dreadfully
from the weather.
"What has happened?" I asked at once, for he walked straight up to an
empty bottle and shook his head mournfully.
"Nothing," he answered, "except that your sister fell into the 'Cher'
and I hauled her out, and Mrs. What's-her-name shrieked and had
hysterics. They are all right now, but as soon as I got your sister to
the bank, I had to throw water over the other lady; I began by
sprinkling her face, but as she rather liked that I had to give her a
regular good dose, and then she opened her eyes and said her dress was
spoilt. I must have some hot whisky, or I shall catch cold."
We besieged Jack with questions, but we did not get much satisfaction
from his replies.
"It was all my fault," he said. "I thought I could teach your sister
to punt, and she fell in and I pulled her out. I have told you that
before."
"Nina can swim," I said.
"There wasn't much time to think about that, besides, she had a long
dress on. I am afraid we made rather a sensation when I got a cab for
them down at Magdalen."
"We must go round at once," I said to Fred.
"I don't think it is much good doing that," Jack went on. "I am
awfully sorry that it happened, because Mrs. Faulkner was annoyed at
first, and that was bad enough, but just before I left it suddenly
occurred to her that I was very plucky and ought to be thanked, which
was much worse. She says they are both going to bed until it is time
for them to get up and catch the train. In that way she hopes to avoid
the most serious consequences. Your sister thinks it rather a good
joke; I hope she won't catch a bad cold."
"You had better go and change," I said, and I asked Fred if he would
come to the Rudolf, but he said that it was no use for him to go if
Mrs. Faulkner and Nina were in bed, and that he would meet me at the
station. Then I said something to Jack about it being awfully good of
him to have jumped into the "Cher" to fish Nina out, but I was very
glad when he asked me to shut up, for Fred was looking more gloomy than
ever, and I am sure that he, having seen Nina swimming heaps of times,
thought the whole thing was thoroughly stupid. I did not quite know
what to think about it, but I wished most sincerely that Nina had never
tried to punt.
Fred walked with me for a short way down the Broad, but stopped by
Balliol, and said he was going in to see a man.
"This affair is a horrid nuisance," I remarked.
"Nina wouldn't drown very easily," he returned.
"But she had a long dress on," and of this remark Fred took no notice.
"I don't think I shall come down to the station," he said; "will you
wish Mrs. Faulkner and Nina good-bye from me?"
"No, I won't," I replied, and we stared at each other so hard that we
were nearly run over by a cab; "you must come, do come to please me."
"You do such a precious lot to make me want to please you," he
retorted, and he looked most desperately down on his luck.
"Do forget all about this afternoon. I didn't mean one word I said."
"You said a precious lot. I'll come all right, but they won't want to
see me," and he walked off before I could tell him that they had better
want to see him, or I would have even another row.
When I got to the Rudolf I sent up a card to Nina on which I wrote
something which at the moment I thought funny. But she did not seem to
see the humour of it, for she sent me down an angry little note in
which she told me to go away and meet her at four o'clock. I went away
sorrowfully, for there was a sense of importance about that note which
told me that Nina was not going to tumble into the Cher for nothing,
and I knew I should hear more than enough about it before long.
But I did not think that I should be made to suffer until I got to the
station. But when your luck is dead out it is wise to be prepared for
anything.
I strolled aimlessly down the Corn-market, and having nothing whatever
to do, I turned into the Union to read the papers, or write a letter to
my brother, or do anything to pass the time. I stood in the hall for
some minutes looking at, but not reading, the telegrams; I was trying
to remember whether it was my turn to write to my brother or his to
write to me, and two or three men who found me planted in front of the
telegrams shoved me a little, so I moved away and met a man whom I knew.
"Halloa, Marten," he said, "I've just seen the pluckiest thing; that
man Ward, you know him, fairly saved a girl's life. She fell out of a
punt on the Cher, a pretty girl too. Ward's a lucky brute, you ought
to have been there."
"I've heard all about it," I answered.
"But it only happened an hour ago."
"Ward told me, he didn't think much of it."
"Well, you should have seen him, I tell you he did it splendidly; I
always thought he was a friend of yours, but you don't look very keen.
However, it's something to talk about," he said, as he strolled off to
find some one who would suit him better than I did.
I drifted from the hall to one of the smoking-rooms, where I sat down
next to a big, bearded man, who was wearing a most extraordinary wide
pair of trousers, and who looked as if he would discourage the attempts
of any one who wanted to talk. He looked at me over the top of _The
Times_, and having had the courage to sit next to him, I felt that if
he would only look at other men as he did at me I should get all the
protection I required. I read in the aimless way which makes me turn
the paper over frequently in the futile hope of finding something
interesting, and I could not help knowing that my neighbour's eyes were
far oftener on me than on _The Times_. But I had no intention of
leaving him, for we were members of a defensive alliance, though he
knew nothing about it; two or three men I knew walked through the room
and left me alone; I was, I thought, in an almost impregnable position
and I closed my eyes, but before I had passed from the stage of
wondering whether I should snore if I went to sleep, I felt a touch on
my arm, and found Learoyd standing by me.
"Go away," I said sleepily, "I am very tired."
He leant over my chair and began to whisper; his back unfortunately was
turned to my ally, or I think I could have stopped him.
"Do you know," he began, "that your sister has been nearly drowned in
the Cher, and Ward jumped in after her? Everybody says he saved her
life and will get a medal."
"Who's everybody?" I asked, and I heard a noise, which was more like a
grunt than anything else, from the chair behind Learoyd.
"Pratt told me, and I knew it must have been your sister because I saw
Ward start out of the college with her and some one else. It was your
sister, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I answered, and my friend in the wide trousers got up and walked
by us.
"I am awfully glad it was your sister now that I have told Pratt so,"
Learoyd said. "He told me that he didn't think it could have been,
because you didn't tell him."
"I never tell an ass like Pratt anything," I replied, "he would die if
he hadn't got something to talk about."
"I am very glad she wasn't drowned."
"You are only glad she fell in," I could not help saying.
He looked rather bothered for a minute. "No, I didn't mean that, only
Pratt isn't the man to tell anything which isn't true, he's such a
gossip," he answered.
"I suppose every one is bound to know all about it. I shouldn't wonder
if it isn't in the papers this evening," I said, as I got out of my
chair.
"It is sure to be," Learoyd replied cheerfully. "Jack Ward will have
to pretend not to like it."
"He won't like it," I said, and I gave Learoyd my paper to read and
made my escape into the garden. I sat down as far away from every one
as I could and asked a waiter to bring me some tea, and for quite five
minutes I was not molested. It was very early for tea, and the waiter
was talkative when he came back.
"Going down to the river this afternoon, sir?" he said, as I fumbled in
my pockets for some money.
"No," I replied.
"Nearly a sad accident on the Cherwell this morning I heard some
gentleman saying. A gentleman from St. Cuthbert's College saved a
young lady from drowning; he ought to marry the young lady, I say," he
concluded with a waggish shake of the head, and he began to grope in
his pockets for sixpence.
"Don't bother about the change," I said, "you're a humorist."
"A what, sir?"
"A humorist," I answered so loudly that nearly every one in the garden
looked round.
"I am a bit of a comic, thank you, sir. I sings a bit and acts a bit
when I get the chance. But people ought to be more careful when they
go boating, many a good life's been lost by drowning, leaving sorrow
behind it."
"Some one is calling you," I said desperately, and just then I saw
Pratt come into the garden and fix his eyes on me. I rose hurriedly,
and leaving my tea bolted for the door which leads into Castle Street.
I turned round when I reached the door and saw the waiter tapping his
forehead with one finger and talking to Pratt. It was not difficult to
guess what he was saying.
I did not know what to do next, so I walked very slowly to the station
and stood in front of the book-stall. Business unfortunately was slack
when I arrived and one of the boys would not leave me alone, he offered
me so many papers that in sheer desperation I bought several; I told
him that I would have two shillings' worth, and left the selection of
them to him. Then I walked off to a seat at the end of the platform to
do a little thinking, but before I had really got settled I saw Fred
walking towards me with his head somewhere near the second button of
his waistcoat. I shouted to him, and after we had sat on the bench for
quite a minute without speaking we both began to laugh at the same
time, until a porter and a ticket-collector came to see what was
happening. The porter was a burly man with a cheerful countenance, and
he seemed so pleased to see any one enjoying themselves that he came
close to us, but the ticket-collector stood afar off.
"Nice weather, gentlemen," he said, and having agreed with him we began
to laugh again.
"I've not 'eard a good joke for many a fine day, you seem to be
a-enjoying of yourselves, my missis 'as got the mumps," and he took off
his cap and scratched his head.
Fred said that mumps were very painful.
"Nearly what you call a tragedy on the river to-day, seemingly," he
went on, and I groaned aloud, but Fred, who had no idea what was
coming, asked him what had happened.
"It's like this," he began, "one of my mates, who 'as a brother what
belongs to one of them boat-'ouses where they let out most anything to
anybody what'll pay for it, 'eard in 'is dinner 'our as 'ow a young
woman would 'ave gone to 'er death only 'er young man 'opped into the
river and saved 'er life. That's what my mate told me, but 'e's a bit
of a liar."
I jumped up from the seat before he had time to tell us anything more,
and pushing a shilling into his hand said that the ticket-collector was
beckoning to him. He was so surprised that he had not enough breath to
thank me, but he was kind enough to go away. When he thought I was not
looking I saw him tapping his forehead and grinning like that
abominable waiter in the Union. After two or three minutes of peace
the ticket-collector thought he might as well try his luck with us, and
began to stroll casually in our direction, but just as he was going to
begin a conversation I seized Fred by the arm, and having fled to the
end of the platform, we sat down on a luggage-barrow.
"I should have hit that man," I said, "I can't stand any more," and
then I told him what I had been through since I had left him. "It
isn't half as comic as you seem to think," I finished up, "every
blessed man I know in the 'Varsity will talk to me about it. Nina can
swim as well as you can, and I shall tell her what I think of her."
"Don't get into another rage," Fred replied; "I shouldn't say anything
nasty to her if I were you, she didn't fall into the Cher on purpose.
What is that huge great bundle of papers you are hugging?"
"They are for Mrs. Faulkner to read on the way down, to show that I
don't bear her any malice. I wish I had never seen her."
Fred took the bundle, and as he looked through the papers he gave way
to such unrighteous laughter that the barrow tipped up, and he, I, and
all the papers were scattered about the platform. I hurt myself and
told him so rudely, but he laughed at nothing that afternoon, and as
soon as he had picked up the papers he went back to the barrow and
proceeded to chuckle to himself until I had to ask whether he had gone
mad.
"For Mrs. Faulkner," he said, and really he was enough to annoy any one.
"Why shouldn't I give her what I like?" I asked.
"She won't thank you for this lot," he answered. "_Cricket, The
Sportsman, The Sporting Life, The Pink 'Un, A Life of W. G. Grace, The
Topical Times, Pick-me-up, The Pelican_,--by Jove she will have
something to tell your people when she gets home."
"It's that boy at the bookstall," I said, "let's go and change some of
them, though I believe you have only picked out the ones which Mrs
Faulkner wouldn't read. I let the boy choose what he liked."
We made the bundle look as respectable as we could, and started down
the platform, but before we got to the bookstall we saw Mrs. Faulkner,
Nina and Jack Ward.
"Oh, here you are at last," Nina said, "if it hadn't been for Mr. Ward
I don't know what we should have done with our luggage."
"If it hadn't been for Mr. Ward we should not only have lost our
luggage but yourself, my dear," Mrs. Faulkner exclaimed, and she put
her hand on Nina's arm.
"I am sure we are horribly obliged to you, Jack," I said, for I had to
say something.
"I hope you won't catch cold," Fred said to Nina.
"Thanks, I think I shall be all right now," she answered.
"It is the terrible nervous shock which may be disastrous," Mrs.
Faulkner remarked.
"Won't you have some tea?" I asked, and it seemed to me that I was
always asking Mrs. Faulkner to have tea when I didn't know what to do
with her.
"We should miss the train, it goes in twelve minutes," she replied.
We stood on the platform for an interminable time trying to talk, but
neither Mrs. Faulkner nor Nina seemed to take any interest in Fred and
me, and I must say that Jack looked terribly uncomfortable at all the
things which were said to him. Just before the train was due, however,
Nina took my arm and drew me away from the others, and I hoped that she
was going to tell me something pleasant, but her first words banished
that idea.
"I want you to ask Mr. Ward to stay with us in July," she said.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," I answered.
"He jumped into the river to save me."
"You can swim all right."
"But he didn't know that."
"Mrs. Faulkner makes me ill. I think you might stop her making such a
fuss; she has made Jack feel uncomfortable, and Fred never says a word.
I think you are treating Fred jolly badly," I said.
"I suppose he will be down in July," she replied, rather disagreeably.
"Of course he will."
"And you won't ask Mr. Ward?"
"For goodness' sake, Nina, don't be stupid," I answered, "and let me
ask what friends I like."
"I shall get mother to ask him if you don't."
Before I had time to reply the train came into the station, and Fred,
Jack and I had to work hard to get a compartment to suit Mrs. Faulkner.
It took some time to get her properly settled, and after she had
thanked Jack once more and wished us all good-bye, Nina came to the
carriage-window and said that I was not to forget what she told me.
"Are those papers for us?" she called out as the train started.
I took off my hat and pretended not to hear, for I had completely
forgotten to change them, but before I could stop him Jack had taken
the bundle out of my hand, and by means of running much faster than I
thought possible he got the whole lot into the carriage.
"I felt such a fool on that platform that I never remembered anything,"
he said, when he came back.
"I wish you had forgotten how to run," I replied, and when Fred told
him why I had kept my bundle to myself we managed to talk about the way
Mrs. Faulkner would criticize my taste until we separated.