THE STRUGGLE FOR THE CUP
Just below the stained-glass window which was at the back of the dais in
the lecture hall stood a silver cup of great beauty. Other and lesser
cups were ranged on each side of it, and all of them were protected by a
glass case of heavy make.
This principal cup had been in the girls’ school for two years now. It
had to be fought for on the tennis courts each year at the end of the
summer term. Until two years ago the boys had won it for six or seven
years in succession, and great had been the jubilation among the girls
when at last they had succeeded in winning it for themselves. Having had
it for two years, they were preparing to fight for it again with might
and main when the time for the struggle should come round again.
Realizing that the best players were not always to be found in the Sixth
Form, the contest was fought by the united efforts of the Fourth, Fifth,
and Sixth Forms, the finals being fought amid scenes of the wildest
enthusiasm.
The struggle was fixed for just one week before the end of term, and was
indeed the beginning of the end—the first break of the steady routine
of the past three months. Fortunately the weather was all that could be
desired, and every one was in wild spirits for the fray.
The Fourth and the Fifth of both schools were early on the ground. The
excitement at the courts was tremendous. Exasperated by having lost the
cup for two years in succession, the boys had been working hard at
tennis this summer, and they were out to win—a fact the girls were
quick to realize.
The games had already started when the Sixth of the boys’ school came
pouring out from their school premises across the cricket field to the
courts of the girls’ school, where the battle was being fought. Two
minutes later the girls of the Sixth also arrived on the scene. They
were a little late because of a history exam which had held them until
the last minute.
The governors of the schools left nothing to chance, and the exams of
the last two weeks of the summer term were things of magnitude.
Dorothy came down to the courts with Joan Fletcher. Hazel and Margaret,
her special chums, were in front, but Dorothy had been delayed by Miss
Groome, and was the last on the scene—or would have been if Joan had
not waited for her.
“What a jolly old day it is!” exclaimed Joan, anxious to show a friendly
front. Both she and Daisy Goatby had completely veered round in these
last weeks, and showed themselves very anxious to be on friendly terms
with Dorothy.
“Oh, it could not be better!” Dorothy flourished her racket, and
executed a festive skip as she hurried along. “It is just perfect
weather for tennis, and I think—I really think we shall beat the boys
if we play hard enough. And oh! we must keep that cup if we can, for the
honour of the school.”
“What a lot you think of honour.” Joan half turned as she hurried along,
and she surveyed Dorothy closely, as if trying to find out what made her
so keen on upholding the traditions of the place.
“Why, of course! But that is only right and natural. Don’t you think
so?” There was surprise in Dorothy’s tone, for Joan seemed to be hinting
at something. Her scurrying run had dropped to a walk, and Dorothy
slowed up also.
“It isn’t what I think that matters very much in this case,” burst out
Joan explosively. “I was only thinking what a pity it is that some of
the rest of our crowd are not as keen on the honour of the school as you
are.”
“Now, just what do you mean by that?” Dorothy halted abruptly, staring
at Joan.
They were just at the edge of the nearest court now, and the shouts and
yells from boys and girls resounded on all sides.
Joan looked up at the sky, she looked down at her white tennis shoes,
and then her gaze went wandering as if she were in search of
inspiration. Finally she burst out, “I hate to have to tell you, but
Daisy and I tossed up as to which should do it, and I am the unlucky
one: your brother has mixed himself up in a particularly beastly sort of
scrape.”
“Tom is in a scrape?” breathed Dorothy, and suddenly she felt as if it
were her fault, for she had seen so little of Tom this term, and when
she had seen him he had not cared to be in any way confidential.
Joan nodded in an emphatic fashion. “A silly noodle he must be to be
cat’s-paw for a girl in such a silly way.”
“What has he done?” asked Dorothy, striving to keep calm and quiet, yet
feeling a wild desire to seize and shake the information out of her.
“I don’t know the real rights of it,” said Joan. “I know a little, and
guess a lot more. Rhoda has dropped quite a considerable lot of money
lately in hospital raffles and in the sweepstakes that were got up to
provide that new wing for the infirmary. As she has helped Tom to so
many plums in the way of winning money in the past, it was only natural
that she turned to him when she got into a muddle herself. She was in a
rather extra special muddle, too, for she was holding the money we
raised for the archery club, and when the time came to pay it over, lo!
it was not, for she had spent it, and her dump from home had not
arrived. To tide her over the bad bit she applied to Tom. He said he had
no money, and did not know where to get it. She, in desperation—and
Rhoda knows how to scratch when she is in a corner—wrote to Tom that if
the money was not forthcoming in twenty-four hours, she would tell his
Head of the doings at the night-club.”
“What night-club?” demanded Dorothy, aghast.
“Oh, I don’t know. Boys are in mischief all the time, I think,” said
Joan impatiently; and then she went on, “The time-limit passed; Rhoda
got still more desperate and still more catty. Finding Tom did not pay
up—did not even send to plead for longer time, or take any other notice
of her ultimatum—Rhoda wrote her letter to Tom’s Head, and actually
posted it. This letter had not been in the post half an hour when her
money from home arrived. She was able to get out of her fix, but she was
not able to stop having got Tom into an awful sort of row. And now she
is so mad with herself, that the Compton School is not big enough to
hold her in any sort of comfort.”
“This night-club, what is it exactly?” Dorothy turned her back on the
tennis players, and faced Joan with devouring anxiety in her eyes.
“I don’t know really; I think it is got up by some of the young officers
at the camp. Lots of them are Compton old boys, you know. I think they
meet somewhere at dead of night to drink and play cards, and go on the
burst generally. They call it going the pace. I suppose they let some of
our boys in for old sake’s sake, though it would be kinder to the boys
if they did not. Anyhow, it is all out now. The boys will get in a row,
the young officers may get court-martialled, or whatever they do with
them up there, and all because a girl lost her temper through not being
able to twist Tom round her little finger.”
“Joan, I am ever so grateful to you for telling me all this, even though
I can’t see any way of helping Tom,” said Dorothy; and then she asked,
“Does he know that Rhoda has told Dr. Cameron?”
“He did not. The letter did not go until yesterday, you see,” replied
Joan. “The trouble for Tom will be that he will not only get beans from
the authorities, but the boys will cut him dead for having been such a
donkey as to trust a girl with a secret.”
“I don’t see why a girl should not be trusted as well as a boy,” said
Dorothy, who always felt resentful at this implied inferiority of her
sex.
“You may not see it, but your blindness does not alter the fact,” said
Joan bluntly. “There goes Rhoda, holding up her head with the best
because she can pay up the money she copped to pay for her old raffles.
I wonder how she feels underneath, when she thinks how her letter to
Tom’s Head will make history for the Compton Boys’ School, and for the
camp as well? You see, she has let the whole lot into it, and there will
be no end of a dust up.”
“Even scavengers have their uses,” said Dorothy, feeling suddenly better
because she realized that Tom would have entirely lost faith in Rhoda;
and although he might have to suffer many things at the hands of his
outraged companions, he would learn wisdom from the experience, and come
out of the ordeal stronger all round.
“It is our turn—come along,” cried Joan with an air of relief. She was
thankful indeed to have got her unpleasant task over, and to find that
Dorothy did not look unduly upset.
The struggle for the cup was being put through amid displays of wild
enthusiasm. The first sets were played by boys against boys, and girls
against girls, and the yelling grew fairly frantic when the semi-finals
were reached.
The girls for the semi-final were Dora Selwyn and Rhoda against Dorothy
and a Fifth Form girl, Milly Stokes, who had carried all before her in
previous sets, though she was small, and younger than most of her Form.
It was rather hard for Dorothy to have to play against Dora and Rhoda,
and she had little hope of surviving for the final. Rhoda was a good
all-round player; she was great, too, at smashing and volleying; while
Dora, with no great pace in her strokes, was very accurate, and always
inclined to play for safety first.
There was no holding Milly Stokes. She behaved like one possessed. She
sent the balls flying with a reckless abandon which looked as if it must
spell ruin, yet each time made for success. Dorothy was wrought up to a
great pitch. It was not tennis she seemed to be playing; it was the
contest between right and wrong—she and Milly Stokes pitted against
Rhoda and the head girl. She was not nervous. That story of Tom’s
impending disgrace had so absorbed her that she could not think about
herself at all. She was standing for what was upright and ennobling, so
she must play the game to win.
Louder and louder grew the cheering; now she could hear the shouting for
“Little Stokes” and “Sedgewick of the Sixth.”
They had won, too, and now Milly Stokes rushed at her, flinging a pair
of clinging arms round her, and crying, “Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy, you are a
partner worth having! We have beaten those two smashers, and surely,
surely we can beat the boys!”
“We will have a good try, anyhow,” answered Dorothy with a laugh; and
then she went off to the little pavilion to have a brief rest while the
boys played their last set for semi-final.
So far she had not caught a glimpse of Tom, but as she came out of the
pavilion with Milly Stokes and went across the court to her place, she
saw him standing by the side of Bobby Felmore.
Her heart beat a little faster at this sight. She knew that he and Bobby
had not been on good terms lately; that they should be together now,
made her jump to the conclusion that Tom’s punishment at the hands of
the boys had begun, and Bobby was proving something of a refuge for him.
“Bless you, Bobby!” she murmured under her breath as she nodded in their
direction; and she was very glad to think that Bobby had not survived to
the final, so that she would not have to beat him.
Their opponents were a long, sandy-haired youth, perspiring freely, and
a dark boy of uncertain temper and play to match. It was a fine
struggle. Milly dashed about more wildly than ever, but Dorothy played
with a gay unconcern that surprised even herself. She had vanquished the
wrong in the semi-final, and this last bit of struggle was merely for
the glory of the school. They won, too, and the shrill cheering of the
girls frightened the birds from the trees, while the boys booed with a
sound of malice in their tone, which was partly for the loss of the cup,
but still more for the loss of the dubious privilege of their
night-club.