They moved into a yet smaller house in a yet meaner street. His mother
had always been clever with her needle. A card in the front window gave
notice that Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, dressmaker and milliner, was willing
to make up ladies’ own materials and guaranteed both style and fit.
Mill hands and miners’ wives and daughters supplied her clientèle.
When things were going well orders were sufficient to keep Mrs.
Strong’nth’arm’s sewing machine buzzing and clacking from morn till
night.
There were periods, of course, when work was slack and bills remained
unpaid. But on the whole there was enough to just keep and clothe them.
It was the problem of Anthony’s education that troubled them both.
And here again it was the Church that came to their rescue. The
pious founder of St. Aldys’ Grammar School had decreed “Foundation
Scholarships” enabling twelve poor boys belonging to the faith to
be educated free, selection being in the hands of the governors.
Sir William Coomber happened to be one, the Vicar another. Young
Tetteridge, overcoming his shyness, canvassed the remainder, taking
Anthony with him. There was anxiety, alternation of hope and fear. In
the end victory. Anthony, subjected to preliminary examination, was
deemed sufficiently advanced for the third form. Sir William Coomber
wrote him a note, the handwriting somewhat shaky, telling him to serve
God and honour the Queen and be a blessing to his mother. And if ever
there was anything that Sir William could do for him to help him he
was to let Sir William know. The Vicar shook hands with him and wished
him godspeed, adding incidentally that heaven helps those that help
themselves. The headmaster received him in his study and was sure they
were going to be friends. Young Tetteridge gave a cold collation in
his honour, to which the head of the third form, the captain of the
second division of the football team and three gentlemen of the upper
sixth were invited. The captain of the second division of the football
team examined his legs and tested his wind and expressed satisfaction.
Jarvis, of the upper sixth, made a speech in his honour, quite a kindly
speech, though it did rather suggest God Almighty to a promising black
beetle; and Anthony was called upon to reply.
Excess of diffidence had never been his failing. It never was to be.
He said he was glad he was going to be in the third form, because he
did like Billy Saunders very much indeed. And he was glad that Mr.
Williamson thought he’d be all right in time for football, because
he thought it a jolly game and wanted to play it awfully, if Mr.
Williamson would help him and tell him what to do. And, he thought
it awfully kind of Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Harrocks and Mr. Andrews to
take notice of a little boy like he was; and he hoped that when he
got into the upper sixth he’d be like them. And he was awfully bucked
up at being one of the St. Aldys boys, because he thought it must be
the finest school in all the world, and it was awfully ripping of Mr.
Tetteridge to have got him into it. And then he sat down and everybody
said “Bravo!” and banged the table, and Mr. Jarvis said it wasn’t half
bad for a young ’un.
“Did I do all right?” he asked young Tetteridge after the others had
gone.
“Splendiferous,” answered young Tetteridge, putting an affectionate arm
around him. “You said something about all of them.”
“Yes; I thought they’d like that,” said Anthony.
He discovered that other sentiments than kindliness go to the
making of a school. It leaked out that he was a “cropped head.” The
founder--maybe for hygienic reasons--had stipulated that his twelve
free scholars should wear their hair cut close. The custom had fallen
into disuetude, but the name still clung to them. By the time they had
reached the upper division they had come to be tolerated. But the early
stages were made hard for them. Anthony was dubbed “Pauper,” “Charity
boy.” On the bench the boys right and left of him would draw away so
that they might not touch him. In the playground he was left severely
to himself. That he was quick and clever at his lessons and that the
masters liked him worked still further to his disadvantage. At first
young Saunders stuck up for him, but finding this made him a sharer
of Anthony’s unpopularity soon dropped him, throwing the blame upon
Anthony.
“You see it isn’t only your having come in on the ‘Foundation,’” he
explained one day to Anthony, having beckoned him aside to a quiet
corner behind a water-butt. “You ought to have told me your mother was
a dressmaker.”
“So is young Harringay’s mother,” argued Anthony.
“Yes; but she keeps a big shop and employs girls to do the sewing,”
explained Saunders. “Your mother lives in Snelling’s Row and works with
her own hands. You ought to have told me. It wasn’t fair.”
Ever since he could remember there had been cropping up things that
Anthony could not understand. In his earlier days he had worried about
these matters and had asked questions concerning them. But never had
he succeeded in getting a helpful answer. As a consequence he had
unconsciously become a philosopher. The wise traveller coming to an
unknown country accepts what he finds there and makes the best of it.
“Sorry,” replied Anthony, and left it at that.
One day in the playground a boy pointed at him. He was standing with a
little group watching the cricket.
“His mother goes out charing,” the boy shouted.
Anthony stole a glance at the boy without making any sign of
resentment. As a matter of fact his mother did occasionally go out
charing on days when there was no demand for her needle. He was a
lithe, muscular-looking lad some three inches taller than Anthony.
“Ain’t you going to fight him?” suggested a small boy near by with a
hopeful grin upon his face.
“Not yet,” answered Anthony, and resumed his interest in the game.
There was an old crony of his uncle’s, an ex-prize fighter. To this man
Anthony made appeal. Mr. Dobb was in a quandary. Moved by Mrs. Newt’s
warnings and exhortations, he had lately taken up religion and was
now running a small public-house in one of the many mining villages
adjoining Millsborough.
“It’s agin ‘the Book,’” he answered. “Fighting’s wrong. ‘Whosoever
shall smite thee on the right cheek turn to him the other also.’
Haven’t tried that, have you?”
“He hasn’t done it,” explained Anthony. “He called my mother a
charwoman. They’re always on to me, shouting after me ‘pauper’ and
‘charity boy.’”
“Damn shame,” murmured Mr. Dobb forgetfully.
“There’s something inside me,” explained Anthony, “that makes me want
to kill them and never mind what happens to me afterwards. It’s that
that I’m afraid of. If I could just give one or two of them a good
licking it would stop it.”
Mr. Dobb scratched his head. “Wish you’d come to me a year ago, my
lad,” he said, “before your aunt got me to promise to read a chapter
of the Bible every night before I went to sleep.” He looked down at
Anthony with an approving professional eye. “You’ve got the shoulders,
and your neck might have been made for it. Your reach couldn’t be
better for your height. And all you need is another inch round your
wind. In a couple of months I could have turned you out equal to
anything up to six stun seven.”
“But the Bible tells us to fight,” argued Anthony. “Yes, it does,” he
persisted in reply to Mr. Dobb’s stare of incredulity. “It was God who
told Saul to slay all the Amalekites. It was God who taught David to
fight, David says so himself. He helped him to fight Goliath.”
Mrs. Newt, having regard to Mr. Dobb’s age, had advised him to read the
New Testament first. He had just completed the Acts.
“Are you quite sure?” demanded Mr. Dobb.
Anthony found chapter and verse and read them to him.
“Well, this beats me into a cocked hat,” was Mr. Dobb’s comment. “Seems
to me to be a case of paying your money and taking your choice.”
Mr. Dobb’s scruples being thus laid at rest, he threw himself into the
training of Anthony with the enthusiasm of an artist. Anthony promised
not to fight till Mr. Dobb gave his consent, and for the rest of the
term bore his purgatory in silence. On the last day of the vacation
Mr. Dobb pronounced him fit; and on the next morning Anthony set off
hopeful of an early opportunity to teach his persecutors forbearance.
They were interfering with his work. He wanted to be done with them. To
his disappointment no chance occurred that day. A few of the customary
jibes were hurled at him; they came, unfortunately, from boys too small
to be of any use as an example.
But on his way home the next afternoon he saw, to his delight, young
Penlove and Mowbray, of the lower fourth, turn up a quiet road that
led through a little copse to the bathing place. Penlove was the boy
who had called his mother a charwoman. Young Mowbray belonged to the
swells; his father was the leading solicitor of Millsborough. He was a
quiet, amiable youth with soft eyes and a pink and white complexion.
Anthony followed them, and when they reached the edge of the copse he
ran and overtook them. It was not a good day for bathing, there being a
chill east wind, and nobody else was in sight.
They heard Anthony behind them and turned.
“Coming for a swim?” asked young Mowbray pleasantly.
“Not today, thank you,” answered Anthony. “It’s Penlove I wanted to
speak to. It won’t take very long.”
Penlove was looking at him with a puzzled expression. Anthony was an
inch taller than when Penlove had noticed him last.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“You called my mother a charwoman last term,” answered Anthony. “She
does go out cleaning when she can’t get anything else to do. I think it
fine of her. She wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t for me. But you meant it
as an insult, didn’t you?”
“Well,” answered young Penlove, “what if I did?” He guessed what was
coming, and somehow felt doubtful of the result notwithstanding the two
years difference between them.
“I want you to say that you’re sorry and promise never to do it again,”
answered Anthony.
It had to be gone through. Young Penlove girded his loins--to be exact,
shortened his belt by a couple of holes and determined to acquit
himself like an English schoolboy. Young Mowbray stepped to the end of
the copse for the purpose of keeping cave.
It was a short fight, for which young Mowbray, who always felt a little
sick on these occasions, was glad. Penlove was outclassed from the
beginning. After the third round he held up his hand and gave Anthony
best. Anthony helped him to rise, and seeing he was still groggy,
propped him up against a tree.
“Never mind saying you’re sorry,” he suggested. “Leave me and my mother
alone for the future, that’s all I want.” He held out his hand.
Young Mowbray had returned.
“Shake hands with him,” he advised Penlove. “You were in the wrong.
Show your pluck by acknowledging it.”
Penlove shook hands. “Sorry,” he said. “We have been beastly to you.
Take my tip and don’t stand any more of it.”
The story of the fight got about. Penlove had to account for his
changed appearance, and did so frankly. Genuine respect was the leading
sentiment he now entertained towards Anthony.
It was shared by almost the entire third class, the only criticism
directed against Anthony being for his selection of time and place. The
fight ought to have been arranged for a Friday afternoon behind the
pavilion, when all things might have been ordered according to ancient
custom. That error could and must be rectified. Penlove’s account of
Anthony’s prowess might have been exaggerated to excuse his own defeat.
Norcop, a hefty youngster and the pride of the lower fourth, might have
given a different account. Anthony, on his way home two days later,
was overtaken in a quiet street by young Mowbray.
“You’ll have to fight Norcop next Friday week,” he told Anthony. “If
you lick him there’s to be an end of it, and you’re to be left alone. I
thought I’d let you know in time.”
Mowbray lived at the Priory, an old Georgian house with a big garden
the other end of the town. He had come far out of his way.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Anthony.
“I hope you’ll win,” said Mowbray. “I’m a Socialist. I think it rubbish
all this difference between the classes. I think we’re all equal, and
so does my sister. She’s awfully well read.”
Anthony was not paying much attention. His mind was occupied with the
ordeal before him.
“He’s rather good, isn’t he, Harry Norcop?” he asked.
“That’s why they’re putting him up,” answered Mowbray. “It’s a rotten
silly idea. It’s the way that pack of wolves settle their differences.
And the wolf that goes down all the others turn away from and try to
make it worse for the poor begger. We’re just the same. If you get
licked on Friday you’ll be persecuted worse than ever. There’s no sense
in it.”
Anthony looked round at him. It was new sort of talk, this. Young
Mowbray flushed.
“I wonder if you could get to like me,” he said. “I liked you so for
what you said to Penlove about your thinking it fine of your mother to
go out cleaning. I haven’t got any friends among the boys; not real
ones. They think me a muff.”
“I don’t,” answered Anthony. “I think you talk awfully interestingly.
I’d like tremendously to be friends.”
Mowbray flushed again, with pleasure this time. “Won’t keep you now,”
he said. “I do hope you’ll win.”
Anthony never left more than he could help to chance. For the next week
all his spare time was passed in the company of Mr. Dobb, who took upon
himself the duties not only of instructor but of trainer.
On the following Friday afternoon Anthony stepped into the ring with
feelings of pleasurable anticipation.
“Don’t you go in feeling angry or savage,” had been Mr. Dobb’s parting
instruction. “Nothing interferes with a man’s wind more than getting
mad. Just walk into him as if you loved him and were doing it for the
glory of God.”
The chorus of opinion afterwards was that it had been a pretty
fight. That Norcop had done his best and that no disgrace attached
to him. And that Strong’nth’arm was quite the best man for his years
and weight that St. Aldys had produced so far back as the oldest boy
could remember. The monitors shook hands with him, and the smaller
fry crowded round him and contended for his notice. From ostracism he
passed in half an hour to the leadership of the third class. It seemed
a curious way of gaining honour and affection. Anthony made a note of
it.
This principle that if a thing had to be done no pains should be spared
towards the doing of it well he applied with equal thoroughness to the
playing of his games. For lessons in football and cricket he exchanged
lessons in boxing. Cricket he did not care for. With practice at the
nets it was easy enough to become a good batsman; but fielding was
tiresome. There was too much hanging about, too much depending upon
other people. Football appealed to him. It was swift and ceaseless. He
loved the manœuvring, the subterfuge, the seeming yielding, till the
moment came for the sudden rush. He loved the fierce scrimmage, when he
could let himself go, putting out all his strength.
But it was not for the sake of the game that he played. Through sport
lay the quickest road to popularity. Class distinctions did not count.
You made friends that might be useful. One never knew.
His mother found it more and more difficult to make both ends meet.
If she should fail before he was ready! Year by year Millsborough
increased in numbers and in wealth. On the slopes above the town new,
fine houses were being built. Her mill owners and her manufacturers,
her coal-masters and her traders, with all their followers and their
retainers, waxed richer and more prosperous. And along the low-lying
land, beside the foul, black Wyndbeck, spread year by year new miles of
mean, drab streets; and the life of her poor grew viler and more cursed.
St. Aldys’ Grammar School stood on the northern edge of the old town.
Anthony’s way home led him through Hill Terrace. From the highest point
one looks down on two worlds: old Millsborough, small and picturesque,
with its pleasant ways and its green spaces, and beyond its fine new
houses with their gardens and its tree-lined roads winding upward to
the moor; on the other hand, new Millsborough, vast, hideous, deathlike
in its awful monotony.
The boy would stop sometimes, and a wild terror would seize him lest
all his efforts should prove futile and in that living grave he should
be compelled to rot and die.
To escape from it, to “get on,” at any cost! Nothing else mattered.