YOUNG BALTIMORE
I
Jeremy was miserable. He was sitting on the high ground above the
cricket field. The warm summer air wrapped him as though in a cloak; at
his feet the grass was bright shrill green, then as it fell away it grew
darker, tumbling into purple shadow as it curved to the flattened
plateau. Behind him the wood was like a wall of painted steel. Far away
the figures of the cricketers were white dolls moving against the bright
red brick of the school buildings. One little white cloud shaped like an
elephant, like a rent torn in the blue canvas of the sky, hung
motionless above his head; and he watched this, waiting for it to
lengthen, to fade into another shape, formless, until at last, shredded
into scraps of paper, it vanished. He watched the cloud and thought:
“I’d like to roll him down the hill and never see him again.”
He was thinking of young Baltimore, who was sitting close to him. He was
doing nothing but stare and let his mouth hang slackly open. Because he
did nothing so often was one of the reasons why Jeremy hated him so
deeply. Baltimore was not an attractive-looking boy. He was perhaps ten
years of age, white faced, sandy haired, furtive eyed, with two pimples
on his forehead and one on his nose. He looked as though quite recently
he had been rolled in the mud. And that was true. He had been.
From near at hand, from the outskirts of the wood, shrill cries could be
heard singing:
“Stocky had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Stocky went
That lamb was sure to go.”
Jeremy, hearing these voices, made a movement as though he would rise
and pursue them, then apparently realized his impotence and stayed where
he was.
“Beasts!” said Baltimore, and suddenly broke into a miserable crying, a
wretched, snivelling, gasping wheeze.
Jeremy looked at him with disgust.
“You do cry the most awful lot,” he said. “If you didn’t cry so much
they wouldn’t laugh at you.”
He gloomily reflected over his fate. The summer term, only a week old,
that should have been the happiest of the year, was already the worst
that he had known at Thompson’s.
On his arrival, full of health, vigour and plans, old Thompson had taken
him aside and said:
“Now, Cole, I’ve something for you to do this term. I want you to be
kind to a new boy who has never been away from home before and knows
nothing about school life. I want you to be kind to him, look after him,
see that no one treats him harshly, make him feel that he is still at
home. You are getting one of the bigger boys here now, and you must look
after the small ones.”
Jeremy was not displeased when he heard this. It gave him a sense of
importance that he liked; moreover he had but recently read “Tom Brown,”
and Tom, whom he greatly admired, had been approached in just this way
about Arthur, and Arthur, although he had seemed tiresome at first, had
developed very well, had had a romantic illness and become a first-class
cricketer.
His first vision of Baltimore had been disappointing. He had found him
sitting on his play-box in the passage, snivelling in just that
unpleasant way that he had afterwards made so peculiarly his own. He
told Jeremy that what he wanted to do was to go home to his mother at
once, that his name was Percy, and that he had been kicked on the leg
twice.
“You mustn’t tell the others that your name’s Percy,” said Jeremy, “or
you’ll never hear the last of it.”
It appeared, however, from certain cries heard in the distance, that
Baltimore had already done this.
Jeremy wondered then why he had been selected for this especial duty. He
was not by any means one of the older boys in the school, nor one of the
more important. He foresaw trouble.
Baltimore had been informed that Jeremy was to look after him.
“Mr. Thompson says you’re to look after me,” he said, “and not let the
boys kick me or take things out of my play-box; and if they do I’m to
tell Mr. Thompson.”
Jeremy’s cheeks paled with horror as he heard this declaration.
“Oh, I say, you mustn’t do that,” he declared. “That would be sneaking.
You mustn’t tell Thompson things.”
“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore, producing a large cake of chocolate
from his play-box and proceeding to eat it.
“Oh, because—because—sneaking’s worse than anything.”
“My mother said I was to,” said Baltimore.
“And you mustn’t talk about your mother either,” said Jeremy, “nor any
of your people at home.”
“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore.
“Because they’ll rag you if you do.”
Baltimore nodded his head in a determined manner.
“I will if they kick me,” he said.
That evening was an unhappy one. Jeremy, kept by the matron over some
silly business connected with his underclothes, came late into the
dormitory to discover a naked Baltimore being beaten with hair-brushes.
That was a difficult moment for him, but he dealt with it in the
traditional manner of school heroes. He rushed into the midst of the
gang, rescued Percy and challenged the room. He was popular and known
for a determined fighter, so there was some laughter and jeering; but
Baltimore was allowed to creep into his bed.
Next morning the school understood that young Stocky Cole had a new
_protégé_ and that it was that terrible new boy Pimply Percy. Jeremy’s
best friend, Riley minor, spoke to him seriously about it.
“I say, Stocky, it isn’t true that you’ve taken up with that awful new
kid?”
“Thompson says I’ve got to look after him,” Jeremy explained.
“But he’s the worst of the lot,” Riley complained disgustedly.
“Well, I’ve got to anyway,” said Jeremy shortly.
The sad part of it was that Baltimore was by no means grateful for
Jeremy’s championship.
“You might have come in earlier,” he said. “I don’t call that looking
after me.”
He now followed Jeremy like a shadow, a complaining, snivelling, whining
shadow.
Jeremy expostulated.
“Look here,” he said. “We needn’t be together all the time. If you’re in
trouble or anything you just give me a shout. I’m sure to be round
somewhere.”
But Baltimore shook his head.
“That isn’t what Mr. Thompson said,” he remarked. “He said that you’d
look after me. But how can you look after me if you’re not there?”
“He didn’t mean us to be together the whole time,” said Jeremy.
The thing was impossible. He could keep his own small fry in order,
although the jeers and insults of those who had until this term been his
admiring friends were very hard to bear. But what was he to do, for
instance, about Cracky Brown? Cracky was captain of the cricket,
thirteen years of age and going to Eton next term. He was one of three
heroes allowed a study, and he was fagged for by several of the new
boys, including Baltimore. He had already given young Baltimore several
for breaking a cup and saucer. How could Jeremy, aged ten and a half,
and in the lower fourth, go up to Cracky and say: “Look here, Brown,
you’ve got to leave Baltimore alone,” and yet this was exactly what
Baltimore expected Jeremy to do. Baltimore was a boy with one idea.
“Mr. Thompson said you were to see they didn’t hit me,” he complained.
“Don’t call him Mr. Thompson,” urged Jeremy. “Nobody does.”
Here on the hillside Jeremy moodily kicked the turf and watched the
shredding cloud. Another week of this and he would be more laughed at
than any other boy in the school. Had it been the winter term his
prowess at football might have saved the situation, but he had never
been very good at cricket, and never would be. He hated it and was still
in third game among all the kids and wasters.
It would all have been so much easier, he reflected, had he only found
Baltimore possible as a companion. But he thought that he had never
loathed anyone so much as this snivelling, pimply boy, and something
unregenerate in him rose triumphant in his breast when he saw Baltimore
kicked—and this made it much more difficult for him to stop the
kicking.
What _was_ he to do about it? Appeal to Thompson, of course, he could
not. He had promised to do his best and do his best he must. Then the
brilliant idea occurred to him that he would write to Uncle Samuel and
ask his advice. He did not like writing letters—indeed, he loathed
it—and his letters were blotched and illegible productions when they
were finished, but at least he could make the situation clear to Uncle
Samuel and Uncle Samuel always knew the right thing to do.
At the thought of his uncle a great wave of homesickness swept over him.
He saw the town and the High Street with all the familiar shops, and the
Cathedral, and his home with the dark hall and the hat-rack, and Hamlet
running down the stairs, barking, and Mary with her spectacles and Uncle
Samuel’s studio—he was even for a moment sentimental over Aunt Amy.
He shook himself and the vision faded. He would not be beaten by this
thing. He turned to Baltimore.
“I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” he said. “I’m only
looking after you because I promised Thompson. You can have your choice.
I’ll leave you alone and let everyone kick you as much as they like, and
then you can go and sneak to Thompson. That won’t help you a bit;
they’ll only kick you all the more. But if you behave decently and stop
crying and come to me when you want anything I’ll see that none of the
smaller boys touch you. If Cracky wants to hit you I can’t help it, but
he hits everybody, so there’s nothing in that. Now, what is it to be?”
His voice was so stern that Baltimore stopped snivelling and stared at
him in surprise.
“All right,” he said. “I won’t follow you everywhere.”
Jeremy got up. “You stay here till I’ve got to the bottom of the hill.
I’ll sit next you at tea and see they don’t take your grub.”
He nodded and started away. Baltimore sat there, staring with baleful
eyes.
II
Then a strange thing occurred; let the psychologists explain it as they
may. Jeremy suddenly began to feel sorry for Baltimore. There is no
doubt at all that the protective maternal sense is very strong in the
male as well as the female breast. Jeremy had known it before even with
his tiresome sister Mary. Now Baltimore did what he was told and only
appeared at certain intervals. Jeremy found himself then often wondering
what the kid was about, whether anyone was chastising him, and if so,
how the kid was taking it. After the first week Baltimore was left a
great deal alone, partly because of Jeremy’s championship, and partly
because he was himself so boring and pitiful that there was nothing to
be done with him.
He developed very quickly into that well-known genus of small boy who is
to be seen wandering about the playground all alone, kicking small
stones with his feet, slouching, his cap on the back of his head, his
hands deep in his trouser pockets, a look of utter despair on his young
face. He was also the dirtiest boy that Thompson’s had ever seen, and
that is saying a great deal. His fingers were dyed in ink; his boots,
the laces hanging from them, were caked in mud; his collar was soiled
and torn; his hair matted and unbrushed. Jeremy, himself often dirty,
nevertheless with an innate sense of cleanliness, tried to clean him up.
But it was hopeless. Baltimore no longer snivelled. He was now numb with
misery. He stared at Jeremy as a wild animal caught by the leg in a trap
might stare.
Jeremy began to be very unhappy. He no longer considered what the other
boys might say, neither their jeers nor their laughter. One evening,
coming up to Baltimore in the playground, he caught his arm.
“You can come and do prep with me to-night if you like,” he said.
Baltimore continued to kick pebbles.
“Has anyone been going for you lately?” he asked.
Baltimore shook his head.
“I wish I was dead,” he replied.
This seemed melodramatic.
“Oh, you’ll be all right soon,” said Jeremy.
But he could get nothing out of him. Some of the boy’s loneliness seemed
to penetrate his own spirit.
“I say, you can be as much with me as you like, you know,” he remarked
awkwardly.
Baltimore nodded his head and moved away.
Bitterly was Jeremy to regret that word of his. It was as though
Baltimore had laid a trap for him, pretending loneliness in order to
secure that invitation. He was suddenly once again with Jeremy
everywhere.
And now he was no longer either silent or humble. Words poured from his
mouth, words inevitably, unavoidably connected with himself and his
doings, his fine brave doings—how he was this at home and that at home,
how his aunt had thought the one and his mother the other, how his
father had given him a pony and his cousin a dog. . . .
Now round every corner his besmudged face would be appearing, his inky
fingers protruding, his voice triumphantly proclaiming:
“I’m coming with you now, Cole. There’s an hour before prep.”
And strangely now, in spite of himself, Jeremy liked it. He was suddenly
touched by young Baltimore and his dirt and his helplessness. Later
years were to prove that Jeremy Cole could be always caught, held and
won by something misshapen, abused, cast out by society. So now he was
caught by young Baltimore. He did his sums for him (when he could—he
was no great hand at sums), protected him from Tubby Smith, the bully of
the lower fourth, shepherded him in and out of meals, took him for walks
on Sunday afternoons. . . .
He was losing Riley. That hurt him desperately. Nevertheless he
continued in his serious, entirely unsentimental way to look after
Baltimore.
And was young Baltimore grateful? We shall see.
III
One day when the summer term was about a month old a very dreary game of
cricket was pursuing its slow course in third game. The infants
concerned in it were sleepily watching the efforts of one after another
of their number to bowl Corkery Minimus. Corkery was not, as cricket is
considered at Lord’s, a great cricketer, but he was a stolid, phlegmatic
youth, too big for third game and too lazy to wake up and so push
forward into second. He stood stolidly at his wicket, making a run or
two occasionally in order to poach the bowling. Jeremy was sitting in
the pavilion, his cap tilted forward over his eyes, nearly asleep, and
praying that Corkery might stay in all the afternoon and so save him
from batting. One of the younger masters, Newsom, a youth fresh from
Cambridge, was presiding over the afternoon and longing for six o’clock.
Suddenly he heard a thin and weedy voice at his ear:
“Please, sir, do you think I might bowl? I think I could get him out.”
Newsom pulled himself in from his dreams and gazed wearily down upon the
grimy face of Baltimore.
“You!” he exclaimed. Baltimore was not beloved by the masters.
“Yes, sir,” Baltimore said, his cold, green eyes fixed earnestly upon
Newsom’s face.
“Oh, I suppose so,” Newsom said wearily; “anything for a change.”
Had anyone been watching Baltimore at that moment they would have seen a
curious thing. A new spirit inhabited the boy’s body. Something seemed
suddenly to stiffen him; his legs were no longer shambly, his eyes no
longer dead. He was in a moment moving as though he knew his ground and
as though he had first and royal right to be there.
Of course, no one noticed this. There was a general titter when it was
seen that Baltimore had the ball in his hand. Corkery turned round and
sniggered to the wicket-keeper, and the wicket-keeper sniggered back.
Baltimore paid no attention to anybody. He ran to the wicket and
delivered an underhand lob. A second later Corkery’s bails were on the
ground. Again, had anyone noticed, he would have perceived that the
delivery of that ball was no ordinary one, that the twist of the arm as
it was delivered was definite and assured and by no means accidental.
No one noticed anything except that Corkery was at length out; although
he had been batting for an hour and ten minutes, he had made only nine
runs. Baltimore’s next three balls took three wickets, Jeremy’s amongst
them. No one was very enthusiastic about this. The balls were considered
“sneaks,” and just the kind that Pimply Percy _would_ bowl. Corkery, in
fact, was extremely indignant and swore he would “take it out” of
Pimples in the dormitory that evening.
Very odd was Baltimore over this. No sign of any feeling whatever.
Jeremy expected that he would be full that evening of his prowess. Not a
word.
Jeremy himself was proud of his young friend. It was as though he had
possessed an ugly and stupid puppy who, it was suddenly discovered,
could balance spoons on the end of his nose.
He told Riley about it. Riley was disgusted. “You and your Percy,” he
said. “You can jolly well choose, Stocky. It’s him or me. He’s all right
now. The other fellows leave him alone. Why can’t you drop him?”
Jeremy could not explain why, but he did not want to drop him. He liked
having something to look after.
Next week something more occurred. Baltimore was pushed up into second
game. It was, indeed, very necessary that he should be. Had he stayed in
third game that galaxy of all the cricketing talents would have been
entirely demoralized; no one could withstand him. Wickets fell faster
than ninepins. He gained no popularity for this. He was, indeed, beaten
in the box-room with hair-brushes for bowling “sneaks.” He took his
beating without a word. He seemed suddenly to have found his footing. He
held up his head, occasionally washed his face, and stared
superciliously about him.
Jeremy now was far keener about young Baltimore’s career than he had
ever been about his own. Securing an afternoon “off,” he went and
watched his friend’s first appearance in second game. Knowing nothing
about cricket, he was nevertheless clever enough to detect that there
was something natural and even inevitable in Baltimore’s cricket. Not
only in his bowling, but also in his fielding. He recognized it,
perhaps, because it was the same with himself in football. Awkward and
ill at ease as he was on the cricket field, he moved with perfect
confidence in Rugby, knowing at once where to go and what to do. So it
was now with Baltimore. In that game he took eight wickets for eighteen
runs.
The school began now to talk about the new prodigy. There were, of
course, two sides in the matter, many people declaring that they were
“sneaky,” low-down balls that anybody could bowl if they were dishonest
enough to do so. Others said that there was nothing low-down about it,
and that young Baltimore would be in first game before he knew where he
was. On his second day in second game Baltimore took Smith Major’s
wicket first ball, and Smith Major had batted twice for the first
eleven. After this the great Cracky himself came and watched him. He
said nothing, but next day Baltimore was down for first game.
Jeremy now was bursting with pride. He tried to show Baltimore how
immensely pleased he was.
In a corner after tea he talked to him.
“There’s never been a new kid his first term in first game before, I
don’t think,” said Jeremy, regardless of grammar. “They’ll play you for
the second eleven, I expect.”
“They’re sure to,” said Baltimore calmly; “and then they’ll play me for
the first.”
Strange that Jeremy, who hated above all things “side” in his fellow
human beings, was not repelled by this. Here in Baltimore was the _feu
sacré_. Jeremy recognized its presence and bowed to it. Small boys are
always fond of anything of which they are proud, and so Jeremy now, in
spite of the green eyes, the arrogant, aloof attitude, the unpleasant
personal habits, had an affection for Baltimore—the affection of the
hen whose ugly duckling turns out a swan.
“You don’t seem very pleased about it,” he said, looking at Baltimore
curiously.
“What’s there to be pleased about?” said Baltimore coldly. “Of course, I
knew I could play cricket. No one in this rotten place can play. I can
bat, too, only they always put me in last.”
“Will you walk out to Pocker’s after dinner to-morrow?” Jeremy asked.
“All right,” said Baltimore indifferently.
IV
In the following week Baltimore played for the second eleven, took eight
wickets for twenty runs, and himself made thirty. A fortnight later he
was down on the boards in the first eleven for the Lower Templeton
match. Now, indeed, the whole school was talking about him, masters and
boys alike. His batting was another matter from his bowling. There was
no doubt at all that he was a natural cricketer. Mr. Rochester, the
games master, said he was the most promising cricketer that he had yet
seen at Thompson’s, remarkable style for so young a boy, an
extraordinarily fine eye. The Lower Templeton match was the match of the
season. Lower Templeton was a private school some ten miles away, and
Thompson’s strongest rivals; they had more boys than Thompson’s, and two
times out of three they won the cricket match. They were entirely above
themselves and jeered at Thompson’s, implying that they showed the most
wonderful condescension in coming over to play at all. Consequently
there burned in the heart of every boy in Thompson’s—yes, and in the
heart of every master and every servant—a longing desire that the
swollen-headed idiots should be beaten.
Boys are exceedingly susceptible to atmosphere, and in no time at all
the first weeks of Baltimore’s stay at Thompson’s were entirely
forgotten. He was a new creature, a marvel, a miracle. Young Corkery was
heard at tea to offer him his last sardine, although only a fortnight
before he had belaboured his posterior with hair-brushes. Cracky Brown
took in him now a fatherly interest, and inflicted on him only the
lightest fagging and inquired anxiously many times a day about his
health. Jeremy surrendered absolutely to this glamour, but it was to
more than mere glamour that he was surrendering. He did not realize it,
but he had never in all his life before had any friend who had been a
success. His father and mother, his sister Mary, his Uncle Samuel—none
of these could be said to be in the eyes of the world successes. And at
school it had been the same; his best friend, Riley, was quite
undistinguished in every way, and the master whom he liked best, old
Podgy Johnson, was more than undistinguished—he was derided.
It was not that he liked vulgar applause for his friend and himself
enjoyed to bathe in its binding light. It was, quite simply, that he
loved his friend to be successful, that it was “fun” for him, amusing,
exciting, and warmed him all over. No longer need he feel any pity for
Baltimore; Baltimore was happy now; he _must_ be.
It must be confessed that Baltimore showed no especial signs of being
happy when the great day arrived. At breakfast he accepted quite calmly
the portions of potted meat, marmalade, sardines and pickles offered him
by adoring admirers, and ate them all on the same plate quite
impassively.
After dinner Jeremy and Riley took their places on the grass in front of
the pavilion and waited for the game to begin. Riley was now very
submissive, compelled to admit that after all Jeremy had once again
showed his remarkable judgment. Who but Jeremy would have seen in
Baltimore on his arrival at Thompson’s the seeds of greatness? He was
forced to confess that he himself had been blind to them. With their
straw hats tilted over their eyes, lying full-length on the grass, a bag
of sweets between them, they were as happy as thieves.
In strict truth Jeremy’s emotions were not those precisely of happiness.
He was too deeply excited, too passionately anxious for Baltimore’s
success to be really happy. He could not hear the sweets crunching
between his teeth for the beating of his heart. What followed was what
any reader of school stories would expect to follow. Had Baltimore been
precisely the handsome blue-eyed hero of one of Dean Farrar’s epics of
boyhood, he could not have behaved more appropriately. Thompson’s went
in first, and disaster instantly assailed them. Six wickets were down
for ten owing to a diabolical fast bowler whom Lower Templeton had
brought with them. Cracky Brown was the only Thompsonian who made any
kind of a stand, and he had no one to stay with him until Baltimore came
in and (Cracky content merely to keep up his wicket) made thirty-five.
Thompson’s were all out for fifty-six. Lower Templeton then went in,
and, because Cracky did not at once put on Baltimore to bowl, made
thirty-four for two wickets. Baltimore then took the remaining eight
wickets for seventeen. Lower Templeton were all out for fifty-one.
The excitement during the second innings had to be seen to be believed.
Even old Thompson, who was known for his imperturbable temper, was seen
to wipe his brow continually with a yellow handkerchief.
Thompson’s went in, and four wickets fell for eleven. Baltimore went in
at fifth wicket, and made thirty-nine. Thompson’s were all out for
sixty-one, and were sixty-six ahead of Lower Templeton. This was a good
lead, and the hearts of Thompson’s beat high. Baltimore started well and
took six of the Lower Templeton wickets for twenty; then he obviously
tired. Cracky took him off, and Lower Templeton had three-quarters of an
hour’s pure joy. As the school clock struck half-past six Lower
Templeton had made sixty runs for eight wickets. Cracky then put
Baltimore on again, and he took the remaining wickets for no runs.
Thompson’s were victorious by six runs, and Baltimore was carried
shoulder-high, amongst the plaudits of the surrounding multitudes, up to
the school buildings.
V
Impossible to give any adequate idea of Jeremy’s pride and pleasure over
this event. He did not share in the procession up to the school, but
waited his time. Then, just before chapel, crossing the playground in
the purple dusk, he passed Baltimore and another boy.
“Hullo! . . . I say . . .” He stopped.
Baltimore looked back over his shoulder. Jeremy could not precisely see
the expression, but fancied it contemptuous. Most curiously, then, for
the rest of the evening he was worried and unhappy. Why should he worry?
Baltimore was his friend—must be, after all that Jeremy had done for
him. Jeremy was too young and too unanalytical to know what it was that
he wanted, but in reality he longed now for that protective sense to
continue. He must still “have something to look after.” There were lots
of things he could do for Baltimore. . . .
Next morning after breakfast he caught him alone, ten minutes before
chapel. He was embarrassed and shy, but he plunged in: “I say—it was
ripping yesterday. Weren’t you glad?”
Baltimore, looking at Jeremy curiously, shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re coming out next Sunday, aren’t you?” he went on.
Baltimore smiled. “I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,”
he said, in a rather feeble imitation of Jeremy’s voice. “If you behave
all right, and don’t cry and tell me when anyone kicks you, I’ll let you
speak to me sometimes. Otherwise you keep off.”
He put his tongue out at Jeremy and swaggered off.
Jeremy stood there. He was hurt as he had never been before in his young
life; he had, indeed, never known this kind of hurt.
Someone came in.
“Hullo, Stocky! Coming up to chapel?”
“All right,” he answered, moving to get his books out of his locker. But
he’d lost something, something awfully jolly. . . . He fumbled in his
locker for it. He wanted to cry—like any kid. He was crying, but he
wasn’t going to let Stokoe see it. He found an old fragment of liquorice
stick. It mingled in his mouth with the salt taste of tears. So,
dragging his head from his locker, he kicked Stokoe in amicable
friendship, and they departed chapel-wards, tumbling over one another
puppywise as they went.
But no more miserable boy sat in chapel that morning.
VI
Two days later, turning the corner of the playground, he heard shrill
crying. Looking farther, he perceived Baltimore twisting the arms of a
miniature boy, the smallest boy in the school—Brown Minimus. He was
also kicking him in tender places.
“Now will you give it me?” he was saying.
A second later Baltimore was, in his turn, having his arms twisted and
his posterior kicked. As Jeremy kicked and twisted he felt a strange, a
mysterious pleasure.
Baltimore tried to bite, then he said, “I’ll tell Thompson.”
“I don’t care if you do,” said Jeremy.
Yes, he felt a strange wild pleasure, but when that afternoon old
Thompson genially said:
“Well, Cole, I think Baltimore’s found his feet now all right, hasn’t
he?”
Jeremy said: “Yes, sir; he has.”
He felt miserable. He sat down and kicked the turf furiously with his
toes. He had lost something, he knew not what; something very
precious. . . .
Someone called him, and he went off to join in a rag. Anyway, “Tom
Brown” was a rotten book.