FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM
Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when
he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form.
Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of
Newall, and the passion that distorted the one face was reflected in a
lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a
beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You
will never see those lines in a beautiful or noble face, boys and girls.
So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate.
Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being
led into a false position.
"I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on
fighting it out as you are," he began.
"One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a
word."
"You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall
roughly. "It was through you coming between us that I got this
beauty-spot yesterday"--pointing to his swollen lip. "Hadn't you poked
your nose in where it wasn't wanted this wouldn't have happened, and I
would have given a good account of myself."
"Sorry, and yet, come to think of it, I'm rather glad," answered Paul
calmly, and not receding an inch from the position he had taken up.
"Glad! How do you mean?"
"Why, if it was through me you got that blow, your quarrel's with me,
and not Moncrief. What's the use of trying to pay back to him what you
owe to me?"
This was a novel way of looking at the dispute which had not occurred to
Newall. As he was not ready with an answer, Paul went on:
"Besides, it was you who got me to speak to Moncrief on--excuse me
saying so--false pretences. I thought you wanted to end the quarrel, to
shake hands with him, and have done with it. It wasn't shaking hands you
wanted, it seems, but clenched fists. I brought him here on a fool's
errand; so the quarrel's mine, not his."
Stanley wished to step in again, but Paul gently yet firmly held his
ground.
"I don't understand quite what you're driving at," said Newall. "It's a
bit of a riddle; but if you want a thrashing as well as your friend, I
dare say you can be obliged, but he comes first. Let him speak for
himself. You can speak for yourself after. Now, Moncrief, no more
shirking."
"It's my quarrel, I say," Paul answered in the same firm tone, and still
keeping Stanley back. "Of course, you think different, and Moncrief here
thinks different, so let's appeal to the Form."
"What's that?" cried Newall.
"Appeal to the Form. The fellows will see things clearer than we can."
The suggestion took Newall's breath away.
"You really mean it?"
"I really mean it."
Newall thought a moment. An appeal to the Form was altogether a new
thing, but as he had not the slightest doubt as to which way they would
decide, why should he not fall in with it?
"Does Moncrief agree to that?" Stanley nodded.
"Very well; let it be as you say, Percival--an appeal to the Form."
Paul, gratified that the quarrel had received a momentary check, was
turning away with Stanley, when Parfitt, who had scarcely spoken
throughout the scene, touched him on the shoulder.
"One minute. Just a little word with you."
He used in effect the same words as Paul had used when he stood between
Newall and Stanley.
"Didn't you find it rather cold in the corridor last night--eh?" he
asked, with a meaning smile.
Before Paul could answer, Parfitt followed in the footsteps of Newall.
Cold in the corridor last night? What did Parfitt mean? The instant Paul
put to himself the question the answer came to him--Parfitt must have
seen him leave the dormitory in the night. Was there anything else in
his question? Yes, he felt sure there was something behind it.
"What was it, Paul? What did he want with you?" asked Stanley, coming up
to him.
"He wanted to know whether I was in the corridor last night. I thought
all the fellows were asleep, but he must have been awake, playing the
spy."
"What of it? You're not the first fellow who's been in the corridor
after 'lights out' by long chalks."
"It was not that--it was not being in the corridor, and Parfitt knowing
it--troubles me. But there's something else--much worse--a beastly
insinuation. Phew!"
The air seemed to have suddenly grown oppressive to Paul. He was no
longer the calm, cool, self-reliant fellow who had stood between Stanley
and Newall.
"Beastly insinuation! What?"
"You do not know what has happened. While I was with you in Dormitory X
some one entered the big hall, broke open Weevil's desk, took out the
Black Book, and tore from it the last five pages. That wasn't all. The
culprit, whoever he was, took away some rough notes and plans Weevil had
made on the subject of the prize essay, 'The Invasion of Great Britain.'
Well, do you see now what Parfitt means to insinuate? He means to
insinuate that I am the culprit--that I was the one who broke open Mr.
Weevil's desk, tore the leaves from the Black Book, and stole the
master's notes."
"No, no; it can't be!" exclaimed Stanley, aghast.
"It can be, and is; I am sure of it. That is the reason why Parfitt
called me aside in such a mysterious manner."
"The mean cad! But supposing he does wish to insinuate such a dastardly
thing, you've an easy answer. Are you forgetting what you said just
now--you were with me last night in Dormitory X?"
"I'm not forgetting, Stan. It's you. Supposing I confessed what actually
happened--that I was with you, and did not go near the master's desk
last night; and supposing you said exactly the same thing--what then?
You forget what happened. Mr. Weevil looked in the dormitory, you
remember; looked round the dormitory, you remember, and spoke to you. He
saw nothing of me, because I was hiding. If I said that I was in
Dormitory X last night, therefore, the master himself would accuse me of
falsehood; and he would have the same answer for you if you backed me
up."
Stanley did not at once answer. He could now see clearly enough the
false position in which his friend had been placed in coming to share
with him in his punishment. But he could only see the chivalry of it. He
did not see that the step, chivalrous though it might be, had been a
wrong step, and was bringing in its train the consequences of
wrong-doing.
"Mr. Weevil questioned the school this morning before you returned,"
Paul went on. "'Had any one left his dormitory during the night?' he
asked. Perhaps I ought to have spoken then; but I let the chance go."
"And Parfitt did not speak?"
"No; but I can see plainly enough now that it wasn't out of any kindness
to me. He kept quiet so that he should hold the secret over me like a
whip. He gave me the first taste of the thong just now, and--and--it
cuts into a fellow."
Stanley could see the pain in Paul's face, as though he could feel the
thong descending upon his shoulders at that moment. He, too, could feel
something of the same pain. His head fell to his breast. He blamed
himself for having been the cause of all this misery. But suddenly he
looked up again, and his face brightened.
"The game's ours!" he cried.
"What do you mean?"
"You twitted me just now about forgetting things, but we've both
forgotten something--Weevil and Zuker. You've forgotten what you saw in
the master's room when you came to me last night."
"Supposing I had; how does that help?"
"Cannot you see?" went on Stanley, quite excited. "Let's put our heads
together for a moment and work it out. Supposing you go to Weevil and
tell him straight out that you weren't in your dorm last night, but with
me. He contradicts you point-blank. 'You could not have been with
Moncrief, because I looked in at his dormitory at midnight and saw that
no one else was there.' Then you bring forward your next piece, and cry,
'I think I can prove to you, sir, that I was in Dormitory X last night.'
'Your proof, quick!' 'My proof is that as I was passing by your room I
happened to glance in at the window, and saw you with another
gentleman--ahem!--looking over some papers.' Check! You have the master
on toast, Paul. The case for the defence will be clear. Do you follow
me?"
Paul did not answer. He saw that this was one solution of the problem;
but he was not certain that it was the best.
"Well, what are you thinking about, old chap? Your face is as long as a
fiddle."
"Your suggestion is a good one, Stan," answered Paul slowly, as though
he were still following his thoughts; "but I don't think that I'll act
upon it--just yet."
"Why not?"
"Let's work my reasons out as you worked yours--shall we? Reason number
one: We have cause to be suspicious of Mr. Weevil, the master in charge
of this school during the absence of the Head. Heaven grant that our
suspicions may be wrong, but we have reason to suppose that he is in
league with a traitor. Am I clear, Stan?"
"Quite."
"Reason number two: If I told Mr. Weevil what I saw through his window
on my way to you I might clear myself, but it would at once put him on
his guard, and we should never have another chance of proving whether
our suspicions are true or false. Is that clear, too?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, thirdly and lastly: Don't you think it will be better to keep
what we know up our sleeves for the present, in view of what may come
after?"
"You're right, Paul, as you always are!" exclaimed Stanley
enthusiastically.
"No, old fellow, there is only One who is always right," answered Paul
earnestly. "We're always patting ourselves on the back and fancying
ourselves mighty clever; but we're not. We're asses--always slipping and
tumbling about, and when not doing that, running down the wrong road and
butting our stupid heads against posts or walls. Asses, all of us--some
big, some little."
"Where do you come in, Paul?" laughed Stanley.
"Amongst the mediums," Paul laughed back; but as he turned towards the
school his face grew grave again. He had tried to reason things out, but
the way before him did not seem so clear as he could have wished. There
were pitfalls before him, into one of which he might stumble at any
moment. And as he thought there came to him the lines of a hymn he had
often heard his mother sing:
"Lord, bring me to resign
My doubting heart to Thee;
And, whether cheerful or distressed,
Thine, Thine alone to be.
My only aim be this--
Thy purpose to fulfil,
In Thee rejoice with all my strength,
And do Thy Holy will."
Entering the school, he sought out Hasluck, head of the Fifth. He was a
quiet, studious boy, with glasses. He did not take a very prominent part
in the sports, but none the less he was keen on the honour of his form,
inside or outside the school.
"I want you to call a meeting of the Form, Hasluck--to-night."
"What about?"
"A little matter between Newall, Moncrief, and me. It touches the honour
of the Form."
And Hasluck at once consented.