David was swaggering about—neither more nor less—in the new school
blazer and eleven-cap on the morning of the cricket-match against Eagles
School, which was the great event of the entire year. But, as a matter
of fact, this swagger was but a hollow show, and though he was
completely conscious of being an object of envy and admiration in the
eyes of the small boys, or, indeed, of anybody who was not in the
eleven, he did not envy himself in the smallest degree. To begin with,
he had that which in later life is called an attack of nerves (though at
present it came under the general comprehensive head of “feeling
beastly”) which made his mouth dry and his hands damp and his inside
empty but not hungry. And, to make this worse, his father had announced
his intention of coming down to see the match. That might not sound
tragical, but to David it was the cause of awful apprehensions, which
require a true sympathy with the sensibilities attaching to the age of
thirteen fully to appreciate.
To begin with, his father was an Archdeacon, and since he wore a
shovel-hat and odd, black, wrinkled gaiters even when, as during last
summer holidays, he climbed the hills in the Lake District with a small
edition of the poems of Wordsworth in his pocket, from which he read
aloud at frequent halting-places, David had not allowed himself to hope
that on the present inauspicious occasion he would be dressed like any
other person, and so escape the biting criticisms that his curious
garments would be sure to call forth. But there was much worse than
this, for his father was going to stay with the Head over Sunday, and
was to preach in school chapel in the evening. That had occurred once
before, and the thought of the repetition of it made David feel cold all
over, for his father, among many other infelicitous remarks in the
course of an infliction which had lasted over half an hour, as timed by
the indignant holders of surreptitious watches, had alluded to the
chapel and the services there as the central happiness of school-life.
David had barely yet lived down that fatal phrase; everything connected
with chapel had been rechristened: the chapel bell had been called “the
central happiness bell”; it was time for “central happiness”; one was
late for “central happiness.” The school had been addressed as “lads in
the springtime of hope and promise”; it was the most deplorable affair.
And he might easily, in this coming trial, give birth to more of these
degrading expressions, which David felt to be a personal disgrace.
But it was not even his father’s dress nor his possible behaviour in the
pulpit that David dreaded most: it was the fear that he would again, as
he had expressed it before, “take part in their school-life.” On that
lamentable occasion he had had dinner with the boys, not sitting at the
masters’ table, which would have been bad enough, but side by side with
David at the table of the sixth form. As ill-luck had it, there was
provided for dinner that day beefsteak pudding, otherwise known as
“resurrection-bolly,” since it was firmly (though mistakenly) believed
that it was composed of all the scraps left on the plates during the
last week. This tradition was beyond all question of argument and
conjecture; it was founded on solid proof, since Ferrers had distinctly
recognised one day, in his portion of resurrection-bolly, a piece of
meat which he himself had intentionally left on his plate four days
previously. Consequently, however hungry you might be, it was a point of
etiquette never to eat a mouthful of resurrection-bolly; and David’s
misguided parent had not only eaten all his, but, like Oliver Twist, had
asked for more, and unlike him had obtained it, and eaten that as well
with praise and unction. Of course he could not be expected to know that
he had been eating scavenged remains (so much justice was done him), but
he had remarked on the excellence of it, whereas it was popularly
supposed to “stink.” Clearly, then, that was the sort of food which
Blaize was regaled on at home in the holidays, and witheringly sarcastic
pictures were drawn of Blaize’s pater in gaiters collecting scraps from
the dustbin in his shovel-hat, and gleefully taking them to the kitchen.
These miserable forebodings, well founded on bitter experience, were
interrupted by the arrival of the team from Eagles School, and the home
team took the visitors off to the dormitories to put on their flannels.
It fell to David’s lot to be host to a boy called Ward, of trying
deliberation in the matter of dress, who parted his hair four times
before he arrived at the desired result, and looked, with a marked
abstention from comment, at the decorations in David’s cubicle.
Consequently, when they got down to the field again, the rest of the two
elevens were practising at the nets, the grass was dotted over with
groups of boys whose parents had misguidedly determined to visit their
sons, while the happier class, unhampered with the dangers and
responsibilities attaching to relations, were comfortably dispersed on
rugs in the shade of the elms. David cast an anxious glance round to see
if his own responsibility had yet arrived, when his eye fell on the
figures at the nets, and the appalling truth burst upon him.
There was no possibility of mistake. Mingled with the crowd at the nets
on the other side of the field was a figure in gaiters and a shovel-hat
just taking off his coat and betraying—an added horror—a brown flannel
shirt. He held up a cricket-ball to his eye a moment, in the manner of
fifty years ago, and, taking a short stodgy run, delivered it. His hat
fell off and the ball was so wide that it went, not even into the net
for which it was intended, but into the next adjoining.
David’s companion saw (for that matter, David felt that all Europe saw)
and laughed lightly.
“I say, look at that funny old buffer in a flannel shirt!” he said. “He
bowled into the wrong net. I wonder why he wears such rummy clothes.”
David felt his heart sink into the toes of his cricket-boots, and leak
out. But there was no help for it: his father was perfectly certain to
kiss him when he joined the fellows at the nets, and the truth might as
well come out now.
“Oh, that’s my pater,” he said.
“Oh, is it?” said Ward politely, with a faint suppressed smile. “But I
expect he’s—he’s awfully clever, isn’t he? My guv’nor played cricket
for England one year, and made fifty.”
Just then David was beyond the reach of human comfort. At any other time
it would have been a glorious thing to be walking with the son of a man
who had made fifty for England, but just now such glory was in total
eclipse. There, fifty yards away, was his own father putting his
shovel-hat on again: he wore gaiters and a flannel shirt, he bowled into
the wrong net, he would preach to-morrow, and perhaps again eat twice of
resurrection-bolly. But a certain innate loyalty made him stand up for
this parody of a parent.
“Oh, my father doesn’t know a thing about cricket,” he said, “but he’s
frightfully clever. He writes books about”—David could not remember
what they were about—“he writes books that are supposed to be jolly
good. He took a double-first at Oxford, too.”
The Archdeacon had seen his son, and, to David’s great relief, did not
bowl any more, but came towards him. There were bad moments to follow,
for he kissed him in sight of the whole school, at which Ward looked
delicately away. Also he had turned up the sleeves of his brown flannel
shirt (as if brown flannel was not bad enough) and revealed the fact
that below it he wore a long-sleeved Jaeger vest. How hopelessly
impossible that was words fail to convey. Nobody ever wore vests in the
summer: you had your coat, waistcoat and shirt, and then it was you. It
was “fuggy” to wear a vest in the summer unless you had a cold, and
everybody would see that he had a fuggy father. And, oh, the idiocy of
his attempting to bowl! It was pure “swank” to try it, for at home he
never joined in his children’s games, but here the deplorable habit of
“joining in the life of the place” asserted itself. The same habit made
him, when at the seaside, talk knowingly to bewildered fishermen, before
whom he soon exposed his ignorance by mistaking a mackerel for a
herring, or, when in Switzerland in summer holidays, to walk about the
milder slopes of the Alps with a climber’s rope about his shoulders and
a piece of edelweiss stuck into his shovel-hat. If he would only stick
to the things at which he was “frightfully clever,” and not go careering
about in these amateur excursions!
Presently the field was cleared for the match; the home side won the
toss, and poor David, who was going in fifth wicket, endured the
tortures of the lost. His father sat next him on a bench in front of the
pavilion, still with his coat off, and continued to enter into the life
of the place by pouring forth torrents of the most dreadful
conversation. There were crowds of boys sitting and standing close round
them, every one could hear exactly what was being said, and every one,
David made no doubt, was saving it up for exact reproduction afterwards.
“And Virgil,” he said, “you wrote to me that you were reading the story
of Dido, _Infandum regina jubes_—but we must attend to the cricket,
mustn’t we? Ha! There’s a fine hit! Well played, sir; well played
indeed.”
The fine hit in question was accomplished by Stone. To any one who knew
the rudiments it was perfectly plain that he intended to drive the ball,
but, mishitting it, had snicked it off the edge of his bat through the
slips, where it should have been caught. Instead of which it went to the
boundary.
“Four, a fine four,” said the Archdeacon enthusiastically. “Ah,
butter-fingers! The wicket-keeper should have fielded that.”
“It was only being thrown in to the bowler,” said David.
“Ah, but if the wicket-keeper had fielded it, he might have stumped the
batsman,” said his father knowingly, suddenly and pleasantly recalling
fragments of cricket-lore long since forgotten. “The batsman was yards
out of the—the popping crease.”
Quite without warning a small boy standing close behind where they sat
burst into a bubble of irrepressible giggling, and walked rapidly away,
cramming his handkerchief into his mouth. Otherwise just close round
them was dead silence and attention, and David looked in impotent
exasperation at the rows of rapt faces and slightly quivering mouths,
knowing that this priceless conversation was being carefully stored up.
He was aware that his father was being gloriously funny, that if it had
been anybody else’s father who was enunciating those views, he would
have listened with internal quiverings, or, like Stephens, would have
found himself compelled to move away from politeness. But, agitated and
nervous, waiting for his innings, he could see nothing funny about it.
Wearily he explained that you could not be stumped off a hit to the
boundary, that you were given four runs without running for them; but
his father thought it an arguable point, and argued. . . .
Two wickets fell in rapid succession after this, and David began putting
on his pads. Aunt Eleanor’s five shillings had been spent in a left-hand
glove, and even at this dark and anxious moment it afforded him a gleam
of consolation. But the donning of these protective articles awoke
further criticism.
“Why are you putting all those things on, my boy?” asked the Archdeacon.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of a knock or two. Why, we never thought
anything of a shooter on the shins when I was a lad. And gloves: surely
you can’t bat in gloves.”
Firm, fixed smiles illuminated the faces of those round. David had
rubbed the second glove in, so to speak, rather profusely during this
last week; the school generally had heard a little too much about it.
But David was hearing a little too much about it now . . . and a shooter
on the shins! how could a shooter hit your shins? Blazes’ pater was
talking through his hat, that very odd hat.
“Oh, every one wears pads, and gloves, if they’ve got them,” said David
rather viciously.
“Well, well, I suppose we were rather too Spartan for these days,” said
his father. “Ah, well blocked; well blocked, sir.”
Things were going badly for the home-side; four wickets had fallen for
thirty, and David was feeling colder and clammier every moment. This was
far the most important match of the year, and he knew quite well that it
largely lay on him to stem the tide of disaster. He knew, too, even more
keenly, that he did not like the look of one of the bowlers in the very
least. The wicket was fiery, and he was bumping in the most
nerve-shattering manner. He himself was, primarily, a bowler; but, owing
to the twenty-five runs he had made last week, was put in fifth wicket,
instead of being reserved for the tail, when, the sting being taken out
of the bowling, he would have been quite likely to make runs. But this
morning the sting had not at all been taken out of the bowling; it was
still detestably steady, and he saw, in the agonised period of waiting
for the next wicket to fall, that he ought to play a careful game, and
wait for opportunities of scoring instead of running any risks. On the
other hand, with his nerves in this condition, he felt that nothing
could give him confidence except one or two proper slogs. With them duly
accomplished he thought he could wipe off the paralysing effect of his
father’s presence and conversation. Then came a shout of “How’s that?”
from the field, and Stone was out, caught at the wicket.
There were three more balls in that over, to be delivered, not by the
bumping terror, but by a slow bowler, and, as David walked out to the
pitch, he abandoned prudence, and determined to hit out, if possible, at
once, and so get the confidence he needed. He looked carefully round the
field; and stood to receive his first ball.
If he had been able to choose, he would have selected no other ball than
that. It was a half-volley, clear of his off-stump, the very ball to
smite at. He did so, and in the very moment of hitting he heard that he
had mistimed it. Somehow or other he got right underneath it, and it
soared and soared almost straight up in the air. As he ran, he knew the
feverish clapping of one pair of hands, and his father’s voice shouting,
“Well hit, well hit, David.”
Then the ball was easily caught by cover-point, and David was sure that
never till the end of his life would he be able to get over what had
happened. He was out, first ball, off a simple half-volley in the match
of the year. Everybody, from Jessop downwards, would know and would
despise him. And it was the boy whose father had made fifty for England
who had caught him.
It is falsely said that the serious troubles of life only begin when
manhood is reached. There was never anything so grotesquely untrue. When
manhood is reached, on the contrary, the apparently irremediable nature
of most events almost ceases. The man, though bitterly disappointed in
one direction, has the power of seeing that there are other directions;
he knows also that, though he is acutely unhappy at the moment, his
misery will be alleviated not only by his own efforts but by the mere
passage of time. But to any boy whose keenness and enthusiasm promises
well for the future, no such alleviation is possible. He has no
knowledge of the healing power of time in these crucial years, no
realisation that other opportunities will come; his misery, like his
happiness, is exclusive of all other considerations. The moment to David
was completely horrible: he was out on this monumental occasion without
scoring, while his hopeless father, though with no sarcastic intention,
had shouted “Well hit, David.” And there was this added sting in that
simple phrase, that now every boy in the school would know what his
Christian name was. For Christian names at Helmsworth were hidden
secrets: if you liked a boy very much you might tell him what your
Christian name was, but to have it publicly shouted out, so that every
one knew, was quite horrible. And as he walked back to the pavilion the
world contained no more for him than that he was out first ball, and
that his name was David. All sorts of stories from the book of Kings,
which, most unfortunately, was being read just now at morning chapel,
would be treasured up against him. They would ask after Jesse, and as
likely as not his stag-beetles would be known as Bathsheba and Uriah.
The innings of the home-side proceeded disastrously. The whole team was
out before lunch for seventy-two, and Eagles made twenty before the
interval without loss of a wicket. David, at present, had not been put
on to bowl, and was fielding deep, near where the Archdeacon was sitting
talking to Goggles and Carrots, who were apparently instructing him
about the disposition of the field, while the Archdeacon, in his manly
way, deplored the fact that the wicket-keeper wore gloves and pads. Also
he thought that boundaries were an effeminate institution; in his day
everything had to be run out (“and a jolly lot of running you had to
do,” thought David). But with optimistic hospitality, Helmsworth hoped
that lunch would worry the batsmen, though Helmsworth howling apparently
did not, and were assiduous in filling their visitors’ plates and
glasses. David’s acquaintance of the morning, who had made fifteen out
of the twenty runs already scored, proved himself as distinguished at
table as he was at the wickets, and ate lobster-salad in perfectly
incredible quantities.
During the last fortnight, friendship had prospered, as David had
thought probable, between Bags and himself, and Bags, who did not, so to
speak, know a bat from a ball, and so was not called upon to defend the
honour of Helmsworth, had a wise thought that day. He had been of the
group that had listened retentively to the Archdeacon’s preposterous
conversation, and had seen David’s inglorious and fruitless innings.
Then came the wise thought: “it must be jolly difficult to play cricket
if your pater is making an ass of himself,” and directly after lunch
Bags proceeded to tempt the pater away from the field. He got hold of
the key of chapel, listened with sycophantic interest to legends about
the saints in the windows, and managed to inveigle him into a long
stroll round the grounds. There was something heroic about this, for,
though Bags could not play cricket, he wanted to watch it, and in
especial to watch David. For when he was nice, he was, in Bags’s
unspoken phrase, “such an awfully fetching chap.” He had all that one
boy admires in another: he was quick and ready of laughter, he was in
the eleven, which was an attraction, he was very good-looking, which was
another, and in point of fact, at that portentous moment when it was
made matter of common knowledge that Blaize’s Christian name was David,
Bags would have rather liked it if some one had proclaimed that his own
name was Jonathan. But, as it was only George, it might as well remain a
secret.
Now David was a bowler of the type known as “wily.” In other words, he
bowled balls apparently so slow and stupid and devoid of all merit that
a batsman who did not know quite all about them felt insulted and tried
to do impossible things with them. So, the score having risen to thirty
without the loss of a wicket, Stone said, “Try an over this end,
Blazes.”
David had seen the departure of his father with Bags from the field, and
felt enormously better. Another opportunity in a new direction, had
come, and as he took up the ball his fingers tingled with possibilities.
He had a few practice-balls, sauntering up to the crease, and pitching
them slow and high without any spin. Then epical matters began.
He took an enormous prancing run at top speed, and delivered a ball of
surpassing slowness. Ward, who received it, suspected there was
something funny about it (which there wasn’t), and, as it was clearly
off the wicket, he left it alone. The next one was a slow, straight
half-volley which he very properly hit for four; so also was the next,
with which he did likewise. Then came the wile: David’s fourth ball, for
which he did not take nearly so long a run, was considerably faster than
the other two. Ward completely mistimed it, and was bowled. Off the last
ball of his over, a really fast one, he caught and bowled the incomer.
This was better, though still bad. Two wickets were down for
thirty-eight, whereas none had been down for thirty. Then ensued an hour
of tip-top excitement, at the end of which nine wickets were down for
seventy, of which David had taken seven. As it was a one-day’s match, it
was to be decided on the first innings, if there was not time for two,
and at that rose-coloured moment David was probably the most popular
person in Surrey.
It was his over again. His first two balls each narrowly missed the
wicket, the third was gently spooned into his hands, and he promptly
dropped it. The fourth was hit for four, and Eagles had won by one
wicket. With his next ball David captured the remaining wicket; but he
had already lost the match for them by dropping the easiest catch ever
seen.
Two exultant batsmen and eleven miserable fielders went towards the
pavilion. Stone, with spurious consolation, slipped his arm into
David’s, as they walked.
“By Jove, well bowled, Blazes,” he said. “You took eight wickets for
about thirty. Jolly good for your average.”
“Oh, blast my average,” said David. “As if I didn’t know I lost the
match.”
David’s comment was more in tune with the popular verdict than Stone’s.
It was quite certain that Helmsworth would have won had not that ass
Blazes (David Blazes) dropped the “pottiest” catch ever seen. Exactly as
in the world afterwards, his achievement in having so nearly won the
match for them by his bowling was entirely wiped out by his subsequent
mistake. Criticism, in fact, had nothing to argue about; it was all so
clear. And, as tea was in progress in the tent, Bags and the Archdeacon,
in a state of high animation, appeared on the lurid scene. They were
instructed as to the result.
“Somebody caught you; you couldn’t catch him?” said David’s father
playfully.
“Yes, just that,” said David, wanting the earth to open . . . he could
have caught that ball with his eyes shut. . . .
The Archdeacon found himself next Goggles, who had told him that morning
the difference between point and short-leg.
“I have been seeing the chapel-organ,” he said, “my young friend
Crabtree tells me you will play to-morrow. A noble instrument. And now
we have returned to see some more cricket. I am afraid the Blaize family
have not helped you much to-day, but to-morrow we will try again. David
is in the choir, is he not? One of us in the choir, the other in the
pulpit. Tea? Thank you, a cup of tea after the excitement of the match
would not be amiss.”
David felt as if he was being publicly insulted, though all that was
really at fault was his father’s friendly adaptability. He had been
markedly interested in cricket, when cricket was predominant, but, the
excitement of that being over, he transferred his mind to the next
engrossing topic, which was Sunday, when the Blaize family would make
another effort. But he erred in not adapting himself to the age and
outlook of those with whom he strove to identify himself, and in
thinking that it was possible for a boy in the school eleven who had
nearly won and then quite lost the match for his side to treat a tragedy
like that lightly, or feel the smallest interest in pulpits or choirs.
An hour of cricket succeeded tea, but, since it was impossible to arrive
at a finished second innings, this was but a tepid performance, and,
after the Eagles eleven had been speeded with cheers, in which David’s
father joined with wavings of his curious hat, he turned to more serious
concerns again, and took David off for a stroll in the grounds to have a
paternal talk to him. There was comedy in some of these proceedings, for
when they had put a hundred yards or so between them and the
cricket-field, the Archdeacon took out a cigarette-case.
“I should not like to be seen smoking,” he said, “by any of your
companions, but I think we are unobserved now.”
David nearly laughed, but managed not to. As luck would have it, his
father had stopped on the very spot which was sacred to the meetings of
the Smoking Club.
“The Head smokes,” he said encouragingly. He saw, too, that his father’s
brand of cigarettes was that preferred by the Smoking Club.
Then ensued the serious talk. Cricket was commended in moderation, but
as an amusement only, not as an end in itself. David’s school-work was
gone into, and he gave again the information he had put into his Sunday
letter a few weeks ago. Then, it appeared, his father had heard a boy
swear as he watched the cricket-match, and hoped that such a thing was a
rare if not a unique occurrence, and David, with the barrier of age
rising swiftly and impregnably between them, hoped so too.
Transitionally, noticing the blue of the July sky, the true meaning of
the Latin word _caeruleus_ was debated, and David cordially agreed that
it probably meant grey and not blue. Then his prayers were touched on,
which, as a rule, were not very fervent performances. This morning,
however, he had said one prayer with extreme earnestness to the effect
that Helmsworth should win the cricket-match which they had just lost,
and David, after the views that had been expressed on the subject of
cricket, felt it better not to give details on this subject. Take it
altogether, the talk was hardly a success, David’s father feeling that
the boy was not “being open with him,” which was perfectly true, and
David feeling that his father didn’t understand anything at all about
him. This happened to be true also; at any rate, his father had no
conception of what it felt like to be thirteen, any more than David had
any conception of what it felt like to be forty-five. Then came the one
bright spot.
“The Head is very well satisfied with you,” said his father as they
turned.
Instantly David’s eye brightened.
“Oh, is he really?” he asked. “How awfully ripping. Even after——”
He stopped, knowing that his father would not understand.
“Even after what?” said he.
David blushed.
“Oh, it was nothing,” he said. “I only was going to say after missing
that catch. But—but I suppose he would think that didn’t matter.
Though, of course, he’s awfully keen for the school to win the Eagles
match.”
He left his father at the Head’s house, and walked back across the field
to the museum class-room, where he was already late for preparation, as
the lock-up bell had sounded ten minutes before. He knew quite well that
his father was fond of him, and was anxious about his well-being, but
somehow the serious talks froze him up, and he could not feel all the
things he knew he was expected to feel. It was so odd not knowing that
fellows swore when they jammed their fingers in doors, or were suddenly
annoyed at anything. Probably grown-up people did not, but that was
because they were grown-up. He was afraid it was a distinct relief that
the “jaw” was over, and on the top of that, in a way that he did not
understand, he was sorry he was glad. And then suddenly he swept all
those puzzling regrets off his mind, and he became alertly and
absolutely thirteen again.
Walking across the field towards him came Mr. Dutton, who, on his
approach, as David’s extremely observant eye noted, put something in his
coat-pocket in an interesting and furtive manner. Without doubt he had
been smoking his pipe, as he came from common-room, a thing which all
the school knew was forbidden to masters in the school precincts, for
fear of the bad example to the boys. This was interesting; it might lead
to something; and David, knowing that the fact that he had been walking
with his father neutralised all possible penalties for being late for
lock-up, advanced timidly, as if he thought he was detected in some
breach of rules.
Mr. Dutton had just come out of meat-tea with the other masters, and was
feeling autocratic. He called David in a peremptory and abrupt manner.
“Come here, Blaize,” he said.
Now Mr. Dutton was not at all a nice young man, and his unpopularity in
the school was perfectly justified. He had favourites, usually pink,
pretty little boys, whose misdoings he treated with leniency, while
those who were not distinguished with his regard he visited with the
hundred petty tyrannies which his mastership gave him the opportunity of
exercising. He also had an effective trick of sarcastic speech which is
an unfair weapon to employ to those who are not in a position to answer
back. And of all those under his charge there was none whom he so
cordially disliked as David, who returned the aversion with uncommon
heartiness. Mr. Dutton was often not quite sure whether David, under a
polite demeanour, was not “cheeking” him (though he need not have had
any doubt whatever on the matter), and he was also aware that all the
impositions which he set the boy did not make him in the least an object
of reverence. However, in a small way, he could make himself burdensome.
“It’s after lock-up, Blaize,” he said. “What are you doing out?”
“Only walking about, sir,” said David.
“Did you know it was after lock-up?”
David looked guilty and shifted from one foot to another.
“Ye-es, sir,” he said.
“Then you will write out two hundred lines of the fourth ‘Æneid’ and
bring them to me on Monday evening. I suppose you thought that your
heroic performance to-day, that splendid innings of yours which came to
an end a little prematurely, perhaps, and the wonderful catch you so
nearly held, entitled you to place yourself above school-rules.”
This was excellent Duttonese, cutting and insulting, and impossible to
answer without risk of further penalties for insolence. For the moment
David’s face went crimson with anger, and Mr. Dutton rejoiced in his
mean heart, and proceeded to pile up irony. He had forgotten the pipe in
his pocket, the smoke of which curled thinly up. But David had not
forgotten it, nor did he fail to see that the Head was coming up across
the field towards them with his swift, rocking motion, and a vengeance
of a singularly pleasant kind suggested itself to him. Had not Dubs made
himself so gratuitously offensive, he would not have dreamed of taking
it; if he had even only stopped there, he might not have done so. But
the disgusting Dubs, intoxicated with his own eloquence, and rejoicing
to see David writhing under it, did not stop.
“It was a grand day for you, was it not?” proceeded this odious man,
“with your father to look on, and call out ‘Well played, Blaize’—I beg
your pardon, ‘Well played, David.’ And to finish with being late for
lock-up is a fine achievement.”
The Head was close to them now, coming up silently, on the grass behind
Mr. Dutton. At a few yards distance he joined in the colloquy.
“What is all this? What is all this?” he inquired.
Mr. Dutton turned.
“Blaize is late for lock-up,” he said. “I have just set him two hundred
lines.”
“Well, Blaize?” said the Head.
David shook off the guilty slouch, and stood erect and confident.
“Please, sir, I was walking with my father,” he said. “Mr. Dutton didn’t
ask me to explain, as he went on about my being out first ball and
missing that catch.”
“You have only just left your father?” asked the Head.
“Yes, sir, two minutes ago.”
The Head nodded.
“We will remit that imposition,” he observed.
Then David suddenly stared at that which he had been secretly glancing
at, namely, the whorl of smoke from Mr. Dutton’s pocket.
“Please, sir, you’re burning,” he said, anxiously pointing at it.
“Something is burning in your pocket.”
The Head transferred his awful eye to Mr. Dutton, and sniffed with his
omniscient nose.
“You may go, Blaize,” he said. “Well, Mr. Dutton?”
David scuttled off.
“Scored off, you cad,” he said to himself, still hot with indignation at
these insults.
* * * * *
But, as David had expected, there were far worse things to be faced than
the sarcasms of Mr. Dutton. Since the conclusion of the match, David’s
performances, heavily handicapped by those of his father, had been
subjected to serious debate, and had been found to be wholly
unsatisfactory. It was true that he had captured a quantity of Eagles’
wickets at small cost, but with the match in his hands, literally in his
hands, he had let it go. Taking his record as a whole, therefore, his
futile innings being also brought under scrutiny, it was fair to make
unkind allusions to his father. There were dissentients from the general
view, the chief of whom was Bags, who said hotly that it was a “chouse”
to rag Blazes, considering that if it hadn’t been for him Eagles would
probably have won by eight wickets instead of one, for who stood the
slightest chance of getting out the fellow whose father had made fifty
for England, even weighted as he was with salad of many lobsters? But
this view was that of a small minority, and an untrustworthy sort of
hush settled down on the first-form class-room as David entered with
simulated composure. No master was in charge during this hour of
preparation on Saturday evening, and though every boy had to sit at his
desk, talking was allowed. Sometimes a sort of patrol-master visited
them, and occasionally, for a pleasant surprise, the Head came round,
the knowledge of which possibility checked any exuberance; but, provided
that no row was made, there was nothing to be feared.
So there was an uncomfortable silence when David entered, the sarcastic
intention of which was not lost on him, for there was no mistaking the
chilliness of his reception. Bags, it is true, greeted him with a
“Hullo, Blazes,” but otherwise nothing was said. Then trouble gently
began to accumulate, like the quiet piling up of thunder-clouds, with
Old Testament allusions.
“I say, Jesse must have been a fine old chap,” said somebody. “He had
such lots of sons.”
“Oh, did he?” asked somebody else politely. “How many?”
“’Bout ten. But the elder ones didn’t seem to matter much.”
There was a dead silence, and David gathered himself up within himself.
Then conversation began again, with rustling of the leaves of Bibles, to
refresh memories.
“I suppose Jesse was a Jew.”
“Oh, rather. That’s why Bags is so keen about his kids. I say, it’s
sausages to-morrow, isn’t it?”
“Yes; Bags and Jesse and the kids won’t have any breakfast. Bad luck.”
David looked up, and caught Bags’s mild eye, which was gleaming with
sympathetic martyrdom. Then the attack became more direct.
“I say, Da—I mean, Blazes—I hope you had a good blow-out to-night.”
David had got a certain fighting-light in his eye, which Bags altogether
lacked. He replied briskly:
“Yes, thanks,” he said. “But why?”
“Oh, I didn’t know. As there are sausages for breakfast——” and a
subdued giggle went round.
David opened the lid of his desk.
“I say, Mullins,” he remarked to the last speaker, “if you don’t know,
you’d better find out. I’ll ask you about it when we go up to
dormitory.”
“Right oh,” said Mullins, strong in the consciousness of numbers to back
him; “but lots of chaps will tell you.”
“Then I’ll ask them all,” said David. “Two at a time, if they funk.”
His heart quaked, but the essence of courage is not that your heart
should not quake, but that nobody else should know that it does.
“Jesse had younger sons as well,” said somebody else, while Mullins was
thinking about this. “There was one who was ruddy. I should think it was
beastly to be ruddy.”
“Oh, yes. He was an awful corker, and kept sheep. Don’t suppose he could
keep wickets or anything like that. Probably he couldn’t hold the
simplest catch, either. But I expect he could spoon them up himself, all
right. Old Jesse would like that. He would probably say ‘Well played.’”
“I say, _what_ was the name of the kid?” asked a voice in tones of the
intensest interest.
David had been rummaging in his desk in a meaningless manner, not in
order to find anything, but to have something to do to cover his
self-consciousness. But when this direct question was asked his hand
closed firmly on a tight, solid classical dictionary, and he waited for
the answer.
“I think he was called David,” said Mullins, who had plucked up again
after David’s threat, which had silenced him for the time. “Yes, David,
I think,” he repeated.
“Oh, do you?” said David, and before Mullins had time to guard, the
classical dictionary, discharged with low trajectory, hit him violently
on the nose, which proceeded to bleed.
“And if anybody else wants to talk about David, that’s what he’ll get.
Chuck it up here, Bags.”
Bags gave a shriek of exultation, as he returned the dictionary.
“Jolly good shot,” he said. “Bang on the proboscis.”
Though David had followed that excellent maxim of war, “If in an
inferior position, attack,” he probably would have thought twice, had he
not completely lost his temper before attacking, for almost everybody
but Bags seemed to have coalesced against him, and he was taking on
rather a large order. But the very suddenness and savageness of the
attack certainly surprised the hosts of the enemy for a moment, and the
gore-streaked Mullins retired to comfort his nose amid dead silence. But
David’s cause was an unpopular one, and he knew it. The Eagles match was
won, except for him, and no one was level-headed enough to reflect that
it would have been much more decisively lost without him. Under the
circumstances, though he had silenced Mullins altogether (for Mullins
certainly would not want to be hurt again, and David in his present mood
did not care two straws whether he himself was hurt or not), he knew
that he must expect a disagreeable evening.
David would have supplied that night an excellent concrete example to
any philosopher who wished to study the unstable nature of popularity.
During that exquisite hour when he was tying up and confusing the Eagles
side with his “wily” bowling there was no bounds to his popularity, and
in one moment, by the insufficient closing of his hand, he had forfeited
it all. Bags alone was faithful, and though that shot with the classical
dictionary had silenced one of his tormentors, it had been a great
mistake. For any one who had lost the match so palpably as he had done
must expect to have sarcastic remarks made, and if David had only taken
them with the meekness that their justice demanded there would probably
soon have been a truce to his punishment. But meekness, unfortunately,
was one of those Christian qualities which he was totally devoid of,
and, though his summary hard-cornered answer to Mullins had been
successful enough, he found that, even if it had been possible to
continue making violent assaults on everybody, he had not the heart to
do so, so chilly and dispiriting was the general attitude towards him.
Stone, for instance, though he had congratulated David on his bowling
directly after the match, was swayed by popular feeling, and when, on
going up to dormitory, David offered him one of his supper biscuits,
which was highly sought after, Stone said “No thanks,” in a tone that
would have chilled a salamander. No one definitely cut him, and there
were no more direct allusions to the son of Jesse, for the portent of
Mullins’s nose was a danger-signal which it would have been folly to
disregard; but if he spoke, he was answered in polite monosyllables, and
if he joined a chattering group, the chatter ceased until he went away
again. No one but Bags came to sit on his bed, and though he made
pretence of being particularly communicative and cheerful, he jested
with a hollow heart.
Next morning was Sunday, and, in lieu of early school, the boys were
allowed to spend the hour before breakfast at the bathing-place. But
when David asked Stone to come and bathe with him Stone replied that he
was engaged to Mullins, and it was bitter to see Ferrers lend Mullins
his towel (though after he had finished with it himself) and find that
Mullins, fat, stupid Mullins, was regarded not only as an injured
person, which anybody could see who looked at his face, but an unjustly
injured person. And in the middle of David’s bathe, who should appear
but the Archdeacon himself! It is true that he went to the far end of
the bathing-place, which was known as the masters’ bathing-place, where
the Head himself sometimes swam fiercely about; but the stout apparition
of his father, clad in a striped jersey, cut off at the knees and
shoulders, standing on the header-board was a distracting affair. Even
the loyal Bags, who had followed David down to keep him company (for
Bags was not allowed to bathe, having a weak heart), even Bags gazed in
dismay at that squat, square form, and said “Lor’.” Simultaneously
somebody behind David remarked:
“Anyhow, he takes his gaiters off.”
David felt too desolate to resent this; also he was watching his father,
almost praying that he should take a neat header. But a loud, flat smack
was heard as he fell into the water.
And Ferrers said to Mullins:
“I say, can your pater take belly-floppers?”
Then Mullins (with a watchful eye on David) as he dried himself with
Ferrers’s towel, began to whistle “Once in royal David’s city.” Other
boys began to whistle it too. It was all deplorable.
The day had begun badly and continued badly. David offered to share his
hymn-book with the boy who sat next him in chapel, who appeared not to
see what he did. He asked Stone to come for a walk with him after
chapel, and again Stone was engaged to Mullins. But all the time Bags
was waiting like a dog to divert and console his master if only his
master would allow him, eagerly braving the unpleasantness of alliance
with the unpopular side, and though, twenty-four hours ago, David would
have scouted the idea of Bags consoling him, he turned to him eagerly
now, and even allowed him to have the Monarch’s travelling-carriage in
his pocket at dinner. And though all the slights and sneers which
surrounded them were of the general nature of chaff, they were of the
species of chaff which is meant to hurt. As Bags had once acutely
remarked, you can hit a fellow over the head just to show you like him,
but you can do the very same thing in an opposite spirit, and it was
this spirit just now that animated these small boys. It was “a rag,” no
doubt, but a rag with a sting in it, for David was paying the penalty of
having been popular, as well as of having disappointed his admirers.
But an eye, wholly unsuspected, was watching the situation. The Head was
perfectly aware that David had lost the match against Eagles (though he
had so nearly won it); he was aware also what manner of impression
David’s father would make on his irreverent school, and when all day he
saw David no longer the centre of groups that were making rather more
noise than was necessary, but either alone, or with Bags, he took
counsel with himself and stroked his grey beard for several minutes.
Then he went across to the museum, where the first form were sitting
under Mr. Dutton, about the time that the Catechism would be finished
and the third missionary journey embarked on. There, having excused Mr.
Dutton, he suddenly addressed David.
“Blaize,” he said, “though it is Sunday, and we are in school, I must
just congratulate you on your bowling performance yesterday. I have
watched a good deal of cricket at Helmsworth for the last twenty years,
and it was by far the finest piece of bowling I can remember. The school
ought to be proud of you. Now, for our work. Antioch! Stone, where is
Antioch?”
There was no getting round this. Stone, Ferrers, David, and Bags walked
arm-in-arm to chapel together. And Mullins’s nose suddenly became the
subject of unkind and universal comment.