BLACK SPOTS
"The Avon bears to endless years
A magic voice along,
Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shade,
And waked the world to song.
We heard the music soft and wild,
We thrilled to pulses new;
The winds that reared the Avon's child
Were Herga's[1] nurses too."
That evening John told Caesar what Warde had said to him, and then
added, "I mean to have a shot at 'the Swan of Avon.'" Caesar looked
glum.
"But how about the remove? We'd agreed to stay in the Second Fifth
till Christmas. It's the jolliest form in the school."
"If we put our backs--and heads--into Trials,[2] we can easily get a
remove."
"Blow Trials."
John turned aside.
"Look here, Jonathan," said Caesar, eagerly. "To please me, give up
your swatting scheme. We can't spoil the end of this jolly term."
He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affectionately. Never had
our hero been so sorely tempted.
"We must stick together, you and I," entreated Desmond.
"No," said John.
"As you please," Caesar replied coldly.
A detestable week followed. John tackled his Shakespeare alone,
working doggedly. Then, quite suddenly, the giant gripped him. He had
always possessed a remarkable memory, and as a child he had learnt by
heart many passages out of the plays (a fact well known to the crafty
Warde); but these he had swallowed without digesting them. Now he
became keen, the keener because he met with violent opposition from the
Caterpillar and the Duffer, who were of opinion that Shakespeare was a
"back number."
John won the prize, and on the following Speech Day saw his mother's
face radiant with pride and happiness, as he received the Medal from
the Head Master's hands.
"You look as pleased as if I'd got my Flannels," said John.
"Surely this Medal is a greater thing?"
"Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys."
"Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, "I know something about
Shakespeare, and he's a friend that will stand by you when cricketing
days are over."
"If you're pleased, so am I," said John.
Scaife got his Flannels; and at Lord's his fielding was mentioned as
the finest ever seen in a Public School match. John witnessed the game
from the top of the Trent coach, and he stopped at Trent House. But he
didn't enjoy his exeat, because he knew that Caesar was in trouble.
Caesar owed Scaife thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt could
not be paid without confession to his father was driving him
distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially at Caesar's distress.
"Settle when you please," he said; "but, for Heaven's sake, don't peach
to your governor! Mine would laugh and pay up; yours will pay up and
make you swear not to touch another card while you're at Harrow."
"Just what he _will_ do," Caesar told John.
"And the best thing that could happen," John said bluntly. "If you
don't cut loose now, it will be much worse next term."
"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual bill for learning a
difficult game. That's how the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for
bridge, and now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene,
and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another
class."
"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's robbery."
"Now you're talking bosh."
The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. Time and Scaife's
fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had
significance. A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a
superstitious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow
wins," he put it to himself, "Caesar will triumph; if Eton wins, Caesar
will lose." When the match proved a draw, John drew the conclusion
that his pal would "funk" telling the truth; an apprehension presently
confirmed.
"I didn't tell the governor," said Caesar, when John and he met. "My
eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, and I shall screw it out of him.
He's a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is simply rolling.
He'll fork out, I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."
"I don't," said John.
He had good reason to fear that Caesar and he were drifting apart. Now
he worked by himself. And his voice had broken. A small thing this,
but John was sensible that his singing voice touched corners in
Caesar's soul to which his speaking voice never penetrated. More,
Caesar and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other than
card-playing. And every point of conscientious difference increases
the distance between true friends in geometrical progression. Poor
Jonathan!
But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood by him. And Warde
made him see life at Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde,
indeed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a sort of experiment
in moral chemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent boy.
Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde--members of the Alpine
Club said that often it was impossible--because he jumped where others
crawled. And he clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.
"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling away, my boy.
And strong sunshine hurts the eyes--at first. Black spots are dancing
before you. I know the little devils."
Or again--
"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't it? Ha, ha!
I've made you reckon up what you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are
others----"
"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."
"Never mind me."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter--I forget verse.[3] Look
it up. Christ answers your question. Make life easier and happier for
some of the new boys. Pass on gratitude. Set it a-rolling. See?"
John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never gave much of it--half
a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the head, a keen look, and a
striding off elsewhere. But when John repeated what Warde had said to
Caesar, that young gentleman looked uneasy.
"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor,
but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"
"As if he could!" said John.
"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."
"No, no."
"I say--yes."
"Caesar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we _are_ sliding apart,
but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means
to--me. You've heaps of friends, and I never was first, I know that.
You can do without me, but I can't do without you."
"Dear old Jonathan." Caesar held out his hand, smiling.
"I'm a jealous ass, Caesar. And, as for calling me a parson," he
laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were
the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."
The feeling in John's voice drove Caesar's gay smile from his face.
Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he
remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face
brightened.
"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card
again this term, and we'll have such good times this last three weeks
that you'll forget the rest of it."
'And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit's inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows?
The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, being but barely
defeated by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of
affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the
Eleven. Scaife fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to
himself that at such times the Demon was irresistible, Warde invited
the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but football, much to every
one's amusement.
"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not cock-house at cricket
this year, but we may be at footer."
John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and when the School
reassembled, he found himself in the First Fifth _alone_. With
satisfaction he reflected that this was Lovell's last term, and
Beaumont-Greene's too. Warde said a few words at first lock-up.
"We are going to be cock-house at footer, I hope," he began, "and next
term Scaife will show the School what he can do at racquets; but I want
more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term.
Is it honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. And it's
well spent, if, _if_ you tackle everything in school life as you
tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all."
"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.
"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in his room every
night after prayers to mug up his form work."
"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.
"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' to a fellow who
wants it."
"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.
The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, of course Warde
was paid for it. John caught Scaife's eye.
"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?"
"Skittles--that!"
John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.
"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do
you think he'd take a better-paid billet?"
Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's
not likely to get the chance."
"He has just been offered the Head Mastership of Wellborough. It's
worth about four thousand a year."
"Pooh! who told you that?"
"Caesar's father."
"It's true," said Caesar.
"And he refused it," said John, triumphantly.
"Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He marched out of the room,
slamming the door. But the Manor, as a corporate body, when it heard
of Warde's refusal to accept promotion, was profoundly impressed. Thus
the term began with good resolutions upon the part of the better sort.
Very soon, however, with the shortening days, bridge began again. John
made no protest, afraid of losing his pal. He called himself coward,
and considered the expediency of learning bridge, so as to be in the
same boat with Caesar. Caesar told him that he had not asked his
brother Hugo for the thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, had come back
from Teheran with a decoration and the air of an ambassador. He spoke
of his "services."
"I knew that Hugo would make me swear not to play again," said Caesar
to John, "and, naturally, I want to get some of the plunder back. I am
getting it back. I raked thirty bob out of Beaumont-Greene last night."
John said nothing.
Presently it came to his ears that Caesar was getting more plunder
back. The Caterpillar, an agreeable gossip, because he condemned
nothing except dirt and low-breeding, told John that Beaumont-Greene
was losing many shekels. And about the middle of October Caesar said
to John--
"What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly nearly paid on the Demon.
And you wanted me to chuck the thing. Nice sort of counsellor."
"Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot?"
"You bet," said Caesar; "but that doesn't keep me awake at night. He
has got the _Imperishable Seamless Whaleskin Boot_ behind him."
Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed him sharply. The big fellow
was pulpier than ever; his complexion the colour of skilly. Yes; he
looked much worried. Perhaps the "Imperishable Boot" lasted too long.
And, nowadays, so many fellows wore shoes. Thus John to himself.
Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked worried, he was worried,
hideously worried, and with excellent reason. He had an absurdly,
wickedly, large allowance, but not more than a sovereign of it was
left. More, he owed Scaife twenty pounds, and Lovell another ten.
Both these young gentlemen had hinted plainly that they wanted to see
their money.
"I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when Beaumont-Greene asked
for time. "I'm going to shoot a lot this Christmas, and the governor
makes me pay for my cartridges."
"So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was quite indifferent to the
money, but he liked to see Beaumont-Greene squirm. He continued
suavely, "You ought to settle before you leave. Ain't your people in
Rome? Yes. And you're going to join 'em. Why, hang it, some Dago may
stick a knife into you, and where should we be then--hey? Your
governor wouldn't settle a gambling debt, would he?"
This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. He knew that
Beaumont-Greene's father was endeavouring to establish a credit-account
with the Recording Angel. Originally a Nonconformist, he had joined
the Church of England after he had made his fortune (cf. _Shavings from
the Workshops of our Merchant Princes_, which appeared in the pages of
"Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of the Imperishable Boot had
taken to endowing churches; and he published pamphlets denouncing drink
and gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who (with an eye to
backsheesh) had praised his sire's prose somewhat indiscreetly.
"You shall have your confounded money," said Beaumont-Greene, violently.
"Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. "When we asked you to join us" (slight
emphasis on the "us"), "we knew that we could rely on you to settle
promptly."
The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing that he had touched a
weak spot; not a difficult thing to do, if you touched the big fellow
at all. A young man of spirit would have told his creditors to go to
Jericho. Beaumont-Greene might have said, "You have skinned me a bit.
I don't whine about that; I mean to pay up; but you'll have to wait
till I have the money. I'm stoney now." Scaife and Lovell must have
accepted this as an ultimatum. But Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride
interfered. He had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess
himself pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humiliation.
Men have been known to take to drink under the impending sword of
dishonour. Beaumont-Greene swallowed instead large quantities of food
at the Creameries; and then wrote to his father, saying that he would
like to have a cheque for thirty pounds by return of post. He was
leaving Harrow, he pointed out, and he wished to give his friends some
handsome presents. Young Desmond, for instance, the great minister's
son, had been kind to him (Beaumont-Greene prided himself upon this
touch), and Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who would
be a power by-and-by, and so forth. . . . To confess frankly that he
owed thirty pounds gambled away at cards required more cheek than our
stout youth possessed. His father refused to play bridge on principle,
because he could never remember how many trumps were out.
The father answered by return of post, but enclosed no cheque. He
pointed out to his dear Thomas that giving handsome presents with
another's money was an objectionable habit. Thomas received a large,
possibly too large an allowance. He must exercise self-denial, if he
wished to make presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid as
usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. There would be time
then to reconsider the propriety of giving young Desmond a suitable
gift. . . .
Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this letter to Scaife and
Lovell. But he saw the Demon's derisive grin, and recoiled from it.
At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. Beaumont-Greene
never resisted temptation. For fun, so he put it, he would write the
sort of letter which his father ought to have written, and which would
have put him at his ease. It ran thus--
"MY DEAR THOMAS,
"No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, and a spread or
two. I should like my son to do the thing handsomely. You know better
than I how much this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say
twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the
bills sent to me.
"With love,
"Your affectionate father,
"GEORGE BEAUMONT-GREENE."
Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, rather fancied himself as
a letter-writer. The longer he looked at his effusion, the more he
liked it. His handwriting was not unlike his father's--modelled,
indeed, upon it. With a little careful manipulation of a few
letters----!
The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly found himself in a
perspiration. None the less, it seemed easier to forge a letter than
to avow himself penniless. Detection? Impossible! Two or three
tradesmen in Harrow would advance the money if he showed them this
letter. Next Christmas they would be paid. Within a quarter of an
hour he made up his mind to cross the Rubicon, and crossed it with
undue haste. He forged the letter, placed it in an envelope which had
come from Rome, and went to his tailor's.
Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the man aside.
"You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual heavy, hesitating
manner.
"With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. Then, seeing an
opportunity, he added, "You are leaving Harrow, Mr. Beaumont-Greene,
but I trust, sir, you will not take your custom with you. We have
always tried to please you."
Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity.
"Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced the letter, envelope and
all. "I have here a letter from my father, who is in Rome. I'll read
it to you. No; you can read it yourself."
The tailor read the letter.
"Very handsome," he replied; "_very_ handsome indeed, sir. Your father
is a true gentleman."
"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for the thing seemed
to be simpler than he had anticipated--"it happens that I _do_ want to
make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send
to the Stores, you know. I have their catalogue."
"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly everything;
except, perhaps, my line."
"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at the Stores one
must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and my father is in Rome. I
should like to have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"
The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been grave scandals
connected with lending money to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the
mercy of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he
can put up his shutters at once. Still----
"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eying Beaumont-Greene
keenly.
"Thanks."
The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake of breath--signs
which stirred suspicion.
"Will you take it in notes, sir?"
Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He had an ill-defined
idea that paper was dangerous stuff.
"In gold, please."
He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The tailor
hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.
"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds----"
"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."
"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get it."
When the man came back with a small canvas bag in his hand,
Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He received the money,
counted it, thanked the tailor, and turned to go.
"If you please, sir----"
"Yes?"
"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of
receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If--if anything should
happen to--to you, sir, where would I be?"
Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.
"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.
The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large,
unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.
"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's
step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir,
was taken only last month; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his
third egg."
Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father and his
third egg. Here's the letter."
He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. The tradesman
looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll never come back," he muttered.
"I know his sort too well." Then, business happening to be slack, he
re-read the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly and
read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. The
"Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the envelope did not look to
be written by the same hand.
"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. "I must show
this to Amelia."
It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The chief cutter
and two assistants said that Amelia was the power behind the throne.
Amelia read the letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared
hard at the envelope, and delivered herself--
"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote the letter, that's
plain--to me. Now, William, you've got me and the children to think
of. This may mean the loss of our business, and worse too. You put on
your hat and go straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I
don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your foolishness.
Don't you wait another minute."
Nor did he.
After prayers that night, Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to come to his
study. Beaumont-Greene obeyed, smiling blandly. Within three weeks he
was leaving; doubtless Warde wanted to say something civil. The big
fellow was feeling quite himself. He had paid Scaife and Lovell, not
without a little pardonable braggadocio.
"You fellows have put me to some inconvenience," he said. "I make it a
rule not to run things fine, but after all thirty quid is no great sum.
Here you are."
"We don't want to drive you into the workhouse," said Scaife. "Thanks.
Give you your revenge any time. I dare say between now and the end of
the term you'll have most of it back."
Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in a particular chair, which
faced the light from a large lamp. Then he took up an envelope.
Suddenly cold chills trickled down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He
recognized the envelope. That scoundrel had betrayed him. Not for a
moment, however, did he suppose that the forgery had been detected.
"On the strength of this letter," said Warde, gravely, "you borrowed
thirty pounds from a tradesman?"
Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said--
"Yes, sir."
"You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen are expressly forbidden to
lend boys money?"
"I am hardly a boy, sir. And--er--under the circumstances----"
Warde smiled very grimly.
"Ah--under the circumstances. Have you any objection to telling me the
exact circumstances?"
"Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents to my friends. I am
going to give a large leaving-breakfast."
"Oh! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum----"
"Not to my father, sir. I--er--thought of coming to you, sir, with
that letter."
"Did you?"
Warde took the letter from the envelope, and glanced at it with faint
interest, so Beaumont-Greene thought. Then he picked up a magnifying
glass and played with it. It was a trick of his to pick up objects on
his desk, and turn them in his thin nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene
was not seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which had
served him faithfully, his lying tongue.
"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance the money for a
few days, and then----"
"And then?"
"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never occurred to me
that I was getting a tradesman into trouble. I hope you won't be hard
on him, sir."
"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"--for a moment his
eyes flashed--"because he came to me and confessed his fault; but I
won't deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He
sat in your chair."
Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.
"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked Warde, casually.
Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.
"No, sir."
"Some of it?"
"None of it."
"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome presents?"
"Ye-es, sir."
"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you received the money in
gold. Did you buy Orders?"
Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found himself wondering why
Warde was speaking in this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his
usual curt, incisive tones.
"Yes, sir."
"At the Harrow post-office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah."
Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this time he didn't
lay down the lens. Instead he used it, very deliberately.
Beaumont-Greene shivered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as
to prevent them clicking like castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet
of paper to the light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the
watermark. The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold
everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, economical in
such matters, had bought a couple of quires when his people went
abroad. The paper he had bought did not quite match the Roman
envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from which he took some thin paper.
This also he held up to the light.
"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your father in Rome
uses the same notepaper that I buy here. But the envelope is Italian?"
He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had lost the power of
speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as
if it were a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge,
sanguine.
"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why, a child could find
you out. And you--you have dared to play with such an edged tool as
forgery. Now, do the one thing which is left to you: make a clean
breast of it to me--at once."
In imposing this command, a command which he knew would be obeyed,
inasmuch as he perceived that he dominated the weak grovelling creature
in front of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this boy's
confession might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in his
mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged letter. The
fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow townsman.
"For whom did you _steal_ this money? To whom did you pay it to-day?
Answer!"
And he was answered.
"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."
Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last word he fell
on his knees, blubbering.
"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together if you can."
The master began to walk up and down the room, frowning and biting his
lips. From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his
utter collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet
Dumbleton.
"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one
in it, I believe?"
"No, sir."
"You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you
understand."
"Very good, sir."
"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. "You will
consider yourself under arrest. Your meals will be brought to you.
You will hold no communication with anybody except Dumbleton and me;
you will send no messages; you will write no notes. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then go."
Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant passed out and into
the passage beyond. Warde waited one moment, then he followed them
into the passage; but instead of going upstairs, he paused for an
instant with his fingers upon the handle of the door which led from the
private side to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed through.
At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone with Scaife. They
had no suspicion of what had taken place in the study. In the
afternoon there had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and both
Scaife and Lovell had played for the School. But as yet neither had
got his Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door,
Scaife was saying angrily--
"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the football Eleven and
a monitor) "has a grudge against us. If we had a chance--and we
had--of getting our Flannels last year, why isn't it a cert. this, eh?"
Lovell shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a cert.," he answered; "and you're right. Challoner doesn't
like us, and it amuses him to keep us out of our just rights. The
monitors know I detest 'em, and they don't think you're called the
Demon for nothing. Challoner is more of a monitor than a
footer-player. How about a rubber? There's just time."
"I don't mind."
Lovell went to the door and opened it.
"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!"
The familiar cry--that imperious call which makes an Harrovian feel
himself master of more or less willing slaves--echoed through the
house. Immediately the night-fag came running; it was not considered
healthy to keep Lovell waiting.
"Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here and----"
He paused. Warde had just turned the corner, and was approaching.
Lovell hesitated. Then he repeated what he had just said, with a
slight variation for Warde's benefit. "Tell him I want to ask him a
question about the house-subscriptions."
"Right," said the fag, bustling off.
Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He had very good manners.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered Lovell's room and looked
at Scaife, who rose at once.
"I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell."
"Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down?"
Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door, then he said quietly--
"Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you money?"
[1] The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow.
[2] The terminal examination.
[3] "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My
brethren, ye have done it unto Me."