TORPIDS
"Again we rush across the slush,
A pack of breathless faces,
And charge and fall, and see the ball
Fly whizzing through the bases."
The remainder of the term slipped away without further accident or
incident. Apart from the preparation of work, John saw little of
Scaife or Egerton. The Fifth nodded to him in a friendly fashion when
he passed them in the street, and, greater kindness on their part, left
him alone. Possibly, Lawrence had said a word to Lovell. Such leisure
as John enjoyed (a new boy at Harrow has not much) he spent with the
devoted Fluff. Desmond and Scaife walked together on Sunday
afternoons. But the fact that Desmond seemed to be vanishing out of
his horizon made no difference to John's ever-increasing affection for
him. Very humbly he worshipped at a distance. On clear, dry days
Fluff and he would climb to the top of the wall of the squash
racquet-courts to see Scaife and Desmond play a single. They were
extraordinarily well-matched in strength, activity, and skill. John
noticed, however, that the Demon lost his temper when he lost a game,
whereas Caesar only laughed. Somehow John divined that the Demon was
making the effort of his life to secure Desmond's friendship. And
Caesar had ideals, standards to which the Demon pretended to attain.
Good simple John made sure that Caesar would elevate the Demon to his
plane, that evil would be exorcised by good. Only in his dreams did
the Demon have the advantage.
Just before the end of the term, Caesar said to him--
"After all, I'm jolly glad I'm coming into your House, because the old
Demon is such a ripper; and he and I have been talking things over.
He's as mad keen as I am about games, and although the Manorites have
not played in a cock-house match at cricket or footer for years, still
there is a chance for us at Torpids next term. You'll play, Verney.
You've improved a lot, so the Demon says, and he'll be captain. Then
there are the sports. If only Dirty Dick could be knocked on the head,
the Manor might jump to the front again."
"It will," said John.
When the School reassembled after Christmas, Desmond entered the Manor,
and found himself with Scaife in a two-room. A civil note from the man
of millions had arranged this. To John was given a two-room, also,
with the Duffer as stable companion. Fluff remained in No. 15. The
Duffer had got his remove from the Top Shell into John's form. Scaife
and Desmond were elevated into the Upper Remove. It followed,
therefore, that Scaife and Desmond prepared work in their own room, the
Caterpillar joining the Duffer and John. Thus it will be seen that,
although Desmond had become a Manorite, he was, practically speaking,
out of John's orbit.
The Caterpillar had now been three years in the school, and he governed
himself accordingly. He put on a "bar-maid" [1] collar and spent much
time on the top step of the boys' entrance to the Manor. No mere
two-year-old presumed to occupy this sacred spot. Had he dared to do
so, the Caterpillar would have made things very sultry for him. Also,
he informed the Duffer and John that, by virtue of his position, he
proposed to prepare no work at all. Each "con" was divided into two
equal parts: the Duffer "mugged" up one; John the other. Then the
Caterpillar would be summoned, and glean the harvest. The Duffer had a
crib or two, but the Caterpillar forbade their use.
"You kids," said he, "ought not to use 'Bohns.' Besides, it's
dangerous."
The Caterpillar's deportment and coolness filled John and the Duffer
with respect and admiration. The master in charge of the Lower Remove
happened to be short-sighted. The Caterpillar took shameful advantage
of this. At repetitions, for instance, he would read Horace's odes off
a torn-out page concealed in the palm of his hand, or--if
practicable--pin the page on to the master's desk.
He had genius for extricating himself (and others) out of what boys
call tight places. One anecdote, well known to the Lower School and
repeated as proof of the Caterpillar's masterly methods, may serve to
illustrate the sort of influence Egerton wielded. When he was in the
Fourth, his form met in the Old Schools in a room not far from that
august chamber used by the Head Master and Upper Sixth. One day, the
master in charge of the form happened to be late. The small boys in
the passage celebrated his absence with dance and song. When the
belated man arrived, a monitor awaited him. The Head Master presented
his compliments to Mr. A---- and wished to learn the names of the boys
who had created such a scandalous disturbance. Mr. A---- invited the
roysterers to give up their names under penalties of extra school.
Hateful necessity! Silence succeeded. A---- grew irate. The monitor
tried to conceal a smile.
"Any boy who was making any noise at all--stand up."
The Caterpillar rose slowly, long and thin, spick and span.
"If you please, sir," said he, "I was _whispering_!"
A----'s sense of humour was tickled.
"My compliments to the Head Master," said he, "and please tell him that
I find, on careful inquiry, that Egerton was--whispering."
A shout of laughter from Olympus proclaimed that the message had been
delivered. The Caterpillar had saved the situation.
John became a disciple of this accomplished young gentleman and tried
to imitate him. For Egerton represented, faithfully enough, traditions
to which John bowed the knee. Upon any point of schoolboy honour his
authority ruled supreme. He told the truth among his peers; he loathed
obscenity; he disliked and condemned bad language.
"The best men don't swear much," he would say. "It's doosid bad form.
I allow myself a 'damn' or two, nothing more. My great-grandfather,
who was one of the Regency lot, was known as Cursing Egerton, but
nowadays we leave that sort of thing to bargees."
Quite unconsciously, John assimilated the Caterpillar's axioms.
"We're not sent here at enormous expense to learn only Latin and Greek.
At Harrow and Eton one is licked into shape for the big things:
diplomacy, politics, the Services. One is taught manners, what? I'm
not a marrying sort of man, but if I do have sons I shall send 'em
here, even if I have to pinch a bit."
This was the side of Egerton which appealed so strongly to John. The
Caterpillar was an Harrovian to the core, like the Duffer and Caesar
Desmond. He deplored the increasing predominance of sons of very rich
men. And he anathematized Harrovian fathers who were persuaded by
Etonian wives to send their sons to the Plain instead of to the Hill.
That some of the famous Harrow families, who owed so much to the
School, should forsake it, seemed to Egerton the unpardonable sin.
During this term, regretfully must it be recorded that John scamped his
"prep" and "ragged" in form whenever a suitable chance presented
itself. The Duffer and he bribed a "Chaw" [2] to throw gravel against
the windows of the room where the boys were supposed to be mastering
the problems of Euclid and algebra. The "tique" [3] master had been
Third Wrangler, but he couldn't tackle his Division properly. Upon
this occasion the "chaw" created such a disturbance that (on audacious
demand) leave was granted to the Duffer and John to capture the
offender. The young rascals pursued the "chaw" as far as the
Metropolitan Station, and presented that conscientious youth with
another sixpence. Then it occurred to John that it might be expedient
to capture some bogus prisoner; so by means of talk, sugared with
chocolates, they persuaded a little girl to impersonate the thrower of
gravel. The little girl, carefully coached in her part, was led to the
Wrangler, but stage-fright made her burst into tears at the critical
moment. Somehow or other the truth leaked out; the Duffer and John
were sent up to the Head Master and "swished." Each collected a few
twigs of the birch, carefully preserved to this day.
Meantime, the Torpid house-matches were coming on, and the School
agreed, wonderingly, that Dirty Dick's had a chance of being
cock-house. The fact that the Manor had lost caste brought about this
possibility. Boys just under fifteen found room at the Manor when
other houses were full. All the Manorites in the Shell and Removes
were fellows who had come to Harrow rather over than under fourteen
years of age.
And when the list of the Torpid Eleven was posted, didn't John's heart
boil with pride when he read his own name at the bottom of it?
The Manor won the first and the second of the matches. Then came the
semi-finals with Damer's. When the teams met in the playing-fields the
difference in the size of the players was remarked. Damer's Torpids
were small boys, not much bigger than John or the Duffer. But they had
behind them that stupendous force which is fashioned out of pride,
_esprit de corps_, self-confidence begotten of long-continued success,
and, strongest of all, the conviction that every man-Jack would fight
till he dropped for the honour and glory of the crack house at Harrow.
Not a boy in Damer's team was Scaife's equal as a player, but in
Scaife's strength lay the weakness of the Manorites. They relied upon
one player; Damer's pinned faith to eleven.
As it happened to be a fine day, the School turned out in force to
witness the match. Most of the masters were present, and some ladies.
Rutford, however, had business elsewhere. The School commented upon
his absence with sly smiles and shrugs of the shoulder. Some of the
Manorites were indifferent; the better sort raged. The Caterpillar
appeared upon the ground in a faultless overcoat, carrying a large bag
of lemons. His straw hat was cocked at a slight angle.
"One is really uncommonly obliged to Dirty Dick for staying away," he
told everybody. "Speaking personally, the mere sight of him is very
upsetting to me. Keen as one feels about this match, one can't deny
that there is not room in a footer field for Dirty Dick and a
self-respecting person."
None the less, the absence of their house-master had a bad effect upon
the Torpids. Damer, you may be sure, had come down, prepared to cheer
louder than any boy in his house; Damer, it was whispered, had been
known to shed tears when his house suffered defeat; Damer, in fine,
inspired ardours--a passion of endeavour.
Scaife won the toss and kicked off.
For the first five minutes nothing of interest happened. Damer's
played collectively; the Manorites rather waited upon the individual.
When Scaife's chance came, so it was predicted, he would go through the
Damer's centre as irresistibly as a Russian battleship cuts through a
fleet of fishing-smacks.
Rutford being absent, Dumbleton, the butler, stood well to the fore.
He never missed a house-match, and no one could guess, looking at his
wooden countenance, how the game was going; for he accepted either
defeat or victory with dignified self-restraint. A smart bit of work
provoked a bland, "Well played, sir, _very well_ played, sir!" uttered
in the same respectful tone in which he requested Lovell, let us say,
to go to Mr. Rutford's study after prayers. The fags believed that
"Dumber," who had begun his career as boot-boy at the Manor in the
glorious days of old, had given notice to leave when he learned that
Dirty Dick was about to assume command; but had been prevailed upon to
stay by the promise of an enormous salary. Nothing disturbed his
equanimity. On the previous Saturday evening, John had heated the
wrong end of the poker in No. 15, knowing that Dumber's duty
constrained him to march round the House after "lights out," to rake
out any fires that might be still burning. Snug under his counterpane,
the practical joker awaited, chuckling, a choleric word from the
impassive and impeccable butler. How did Dumber divine that the poker
was unduly hot and black with soot underneath? Who can answer that
question? The fact remains that he seized John's best Sunday trousers
which were laid out on a chair, and holding the poker with these,
accomplished his task without remark or smile. The trousers had to be
sent to the tailor's to be cleaned.
Not far from Dumber stood a group of small boys, including the unhappy
Fluff--unhappy because he was not playing, despite arduous training
(entirely to please John) and systematic coaching. His failure meant
further separation from John, whom, it will be remembered, he would
have been allowed to call by his Christian name, had he been included
amongst the Torpids. Of late, Fluff had not seen much of John, and in
his dark hours he allowed his thoughts to linger, not unpleasantly
sometimes, upon premature death and John's subsequent remorse.
Meantime, Scaife and Desmond were playing a furious game which must
have proved successful had it not been for the admirable steadiness of
the enemy. Lawrence watched their efforts with compressed lips and
frowning brows. He knew--who better?--that his cracks were tearing
themselves to tatters; but his protests were drowned by the shrill
cheers of the fags.
"Rutfords--Rutfor-r-r-r-r-ds! Go it, old Demon!--Jolly well played,
Caesar!--Sky him![4]--Well skied, sir!--Ah-h-h-h! Well given--well
taken!"
The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed that "Yards" [5] had
been given to Scaife right in front of Damer's base. Damer's
retreated; Scaife, with heaving chest, balanced the big ball between
the tips of his fingers.
"Oh-h-h-h-h!"
Scaife had missed an easy shot. Lawrence could see that the boy was
trembling with disappointment and mortification. Barbed arrows from
Damer's small boys pierced Manorite hearts.
"Jolly well boshed, Scaife!--Good, kind, old Demon!--Thank you,
Scaife!--" and like derisive approbation rolled from lip to lip. The
Caterpillar turned to Lovell.
"Showing temper, ain't he?"
"Yes," said Lovell.
"Clever chap," said the Caterpillar, reflectively; "but one is reminded
that a stream can't rise higher than its source. Not mine that--the
governor's! Caesar is facing the chaff with a grin."
The game began again. But soon it became evident that Scaife had lost,
not only his temper, but his head. He rushed here and there with so
little judgment that the odds amongst the sporting fellows went to six
to four against the Manor. At the beginning of the game they were six
to four the other way. And, inevitably, Scaife's wild and furious
efforts unbalanced Desmond's play. Both boys were out of their proper
places to the confusion of the rest of the team. Within half an hour
Damer's had scored two bases to nothing.
The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. Lawrence went up to
Scaife. The captain of the Torpids was standing apart, not far from
Desmond, who was sucking a lemon with a puzzled expression. Gallant,
sweet-tempered, and always hopeful, Caesar could not understand his
friend's passion of rage and resentment. With the tact of his race,
however, he held aloof, smiling feebly, because he had sworn to himself
not to frown. Had he looked to his right, he would have seen John,
also sucking a lemon, but understudying his idol's nonchalant attitude
and smile. John was sensible of an overpowering desire to fling
himself upon the ground and howl. Instead he sucked his lemon, stared
at Desmond, and smiled--valiantly.
"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing the game."
Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," he muttered.
Lawrence continued in the same steady voice, "Yes; because you missed
an easy base which has happened to me and every other player scores of
times. Come here, Desmond."
Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face brightened when he saw hopeful
eyes and a gallant smile.
"You don't despair?"
"We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet."
"That's the Harrow spirit, but temper your determination to win with a
little common sense. You've overdone it, both of you. Take my tip:
they'll play up like blazes. Defend your own base; and then when
they're spent, trample on 'em."
"Thank you," said Desmond.
Scaife nodded sulkily.
None the less he had too great respect for Lawrence's ability and
experience as a captain to disregard his advice. After the kick-off,
Damer's _did_ play up, and the Manor had to defend its base against
sustained and fierce attack. Again and again a third base was almost
kicked, again and again superior weight prevailed in the scrimmages.
Within ten minutes Damer's were gasping and weary. And then, the ball
was forced out of the scrimmage and kicked to the top side, Desmond's
place in the field. Comparatively fresh, seeing the glorious
opportunity, grasping it, hugging it, Caesar swooped on the ball. He
had the heels of any boy on the opposite side. Down the field he sped,
faster and faster, amid the roars of the School, roars which came to
his ears like the deep booming of breakers upon a lee shore. To many
of those watching him, the sight of that graceful figure, that shining
ardent face, revealing the promise which youth and beauty always offer
to a delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. Damer turned to
the Head of his house.
"And Desmond ought to be one of _us_," he groaned.
And now Caesar had passed all forwards. If he keep his wits a base is
certain. The full back alone lies between him and triumph. But this
is the moment, the psychological moment, when one tiny mistake will
prove irrevocable. The Head of Damer's whispers as much to Damer, who
smiles sadly.
"His father's son will not blunder now," he replies.
Nor does he. The mistake--for mistake there must be on one side or
t'other--is made by Damer's back. As the ball rolls halfway between
them, the back hesitates and falters.
One base to two--and eighteen minutes to play!
The second base was kicked by Scaife five minutes later.
By this time the School knew that they were looking on at a cock-house
match, not a semi-final. It was the wealth of Dives against the
widow's mite that the winner of this match would defeat easily either
of the two remaining houses. And not a man or boy on the ground could
name with any conviction the better eleven. The betting languished at
evens.
Moreover, both sides were playing "canny," risking nothing, nursing
their energies for the last furious five minutes. Damer began to
fidget; then he dropped out of the front rank of spectators. He
couldn't stand still to see his boys win--or lose. He paced up and
down behind the fags, who winked at each other.
"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.
Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of High Life below
Stairs.
"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.
"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that every minute
improves our chance, but if it goes on much longer," he added
phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. My 'eart's weak, my lord."
This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it were brand-new,
and received by the fags in a like spirit.
"Bless you, you've got no heart, Dumber. It's turned into tummy long
ago," or, in scathing accents, "It's not your heart that's out of
whack, Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What a pity you
can't buy a new one!" and so on and so forth.
Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excitement began to shake the
spectators. They felt it up and down their spinal columns; it formed
itself into lumps in their throats; it gave one or two cramp in the
calves of their legs; It reddened many cheeks and whitened as many
more. The Caterpillar pulled out his watch.
"Three and a half minutes," he announced in a voice which fell like the
crack of doom upon the silent crowd. If they could have cheered or
chaffed! But the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle
prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried through a scrimmage,
escaped to the right, slid out to the left, only to be returned whence
it came. It seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and when
kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if weighted by the
ever-increasing burden of suspense. . . .
"Now--now's your chance!" yelled the Manorites.
To their flaming senses the ball appeared to be lying, a huge blurred
sphere, upon the muddy grass; and the Elevens were stupidly staring at
it. The Saints be praised! Some fellow can move. Who is it? The
players, big and little, are so daubed with mud from head to foot as to
be unrecognizable. Ah-h-h! It's young Verney.
"Good kid! Well played--I say, well played, well pla-a-a-a-yed!"
Our John has, it seems, distinguished himself. He has charged
valiantly into the captain of Damer's at the moment when that
illustrious chief is about to kick the ball to a trusted lieutenant on
the left. He succeeds in kicking the ball into John's face. John goes
over backwards; but the ball falls just in front of the Duffer.
"Kick it, Duffer--kick it, you old ass!"
The Duffer kicks it most accurately, kicks it well out to the top side.
Now, can Desmond repeat his amazing performance? Yes--No--he can't.
The conditions are no longer the same. Half a dozen fellows are
between him and the Damer base.
Alas! The Manor is about to receive a second object-lesson upon the
fatuity of trusting to individuals. Confident in Caesar's ability to
take the ball at least within kicking distance of the base, they have
rushed forward, leaving unguarded their own citadel. Caesar, going too
fast, misjudges the distance between himself and the back. A second
later the ball is well on its way to the Manor's base. The back awaits
it, coolly enough; knowing that Damer's forwards are offside. Then he
kicks the sodden, slippery ball--hard. An exclamation of horror bursts
from the Manorites. Their back has kicked the ball straight into the
hands of the Damerite captain, the steadiest player on the ground.
"_Yards_!"
The chief collects himself for a decisive effort, and then despatches
the ball straight and true for the target.
It passed between the posts within forty-five seconds of time.
[1] The "Barmaid" collar is the double collar, at that time just coming
into fashion.
[2] "Chaw," short for Chawbacon.
[3] "Tique," ab. for arithmetic. "Tique-beaks" are mathematical
masters.
[4] To "sky," _i.e._ to charge and overthrow.
[5] In the Harrow game a boy may turn and kick the ball into the hands
of one of his own side. The boy who catches it calls "Yards!" and, the
opposite side withdrawing three yards, the catcher is allowed a free
kick.