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CAPTAINS OF HARLEY
* * * * *
SCHOOL STORIES BY
HYLTON CLEAVER
BROTHER O’ MINE:
A Story of Harley
THE HARLEY FIRST XI
ROSCOE MAKES GOOD
HUMPHREY MILFORD
* * * * *
[Illustration:
“WHEN HE HIT THE BOARDS HE LAY STILL.”
[_See p. 273._]
CAPTAINS OF HARLEY
A School Story
by
HYLTON CLEAVER
Author of “Brother o’ Mine,” etc.
With Illustrations by H. M. Brock
Humphrey Milford
Oxford University Press
London Edinburgh Glasgow
Toronto Melbourne Capetown Bombay
1921
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BOY IN THE CORNER 9
II. THE GREAT GAME 20
III. COMING EVENTS 31
IV. A SLIGHT MISTAKE 40
V. BREAKERS AHEAD 54
VI. A RISING STAR 62
VII. A CABINET MEETING 71
VIII. THE THUMB-SCREW 82
IX. A MOLE-HILL AND A MOUNTAIN 94
X. THE WATCHERS 101
XI. THE HOLD 110
XII. CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE ARISEN 127
XIII. SOMETHING UP HIS SLEEVE 135
XIV. THE FIRST ROUND 142
XV. THE SAFETY VALVE 152
XVI. YESTERDAY’S CAPTAIN 165
XVII. SALVE 182
XVIII. THE UNCOUNTED COST 188
XIX. THE CUP OF BITTERNESS 197
XX. THE LAST ROUND 218
XXI. SECRET SERVICE 230
XXII. HARD ROE 243
XXIII. THE DAY OF RECKONING 261
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“WHEN HE HIT THE BOARDS HE LAY STILL” (See page 273)
_Frontispiece in colour_
FACING PAGE
“HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A SLIPPER” 28
“THE HEAD ADVANCED UPON THEM IN GROWING ANGER” 98
“‘THE MATCH IS SCRATCHED, SIR,’ SAID HE” 148
“‘I THINK YOU’VE SEEN THAT BEFORE?’” 208
CHAPTER I
THE BOY IN THE CORNER
A wiry, grave-faced youngster sat in the corner of the railway carriage
watching a stupid parent saying good-bye to a stupid boy.
He was glad that nobody had come to see him off, for he had now the
satisfaction of knowing that his own father was a father more worth
having than any other he had seen yet. Also he could look upon the
pitiable scene now being enacted before him from the standpoint of one
who at least could be trusted to get into the right carriage without
leaping out by the other door to see if it were really labelled “Harley”
on both sides. This fat boy had done that, and afterwards he had sat
down very heavily on a packet of sandwiches and was unaware of it. The
boy in the corner wondered if they would be sticking to him when he
stood up. As for the parent of the fat boy, he stood outside looking
nervously towards the engine, and his raincoat, which was unbuttoned,
blew this way and that in the breeze; once it had somewhat foolishly
knocked some buns off a push-cart. He wore a hat poised far forward over
his nose, and he had flat feet.
Whilst the boy in the corner sat watching with thoughtful eyes, the man
broke suddenly into a rapid clog dance and beckoned to his son. Above
the rat-a-tat of his feet upon the platform could be heard his voice
plaintively upraised:
“Arthur! Arthur! _Come_ here! Jump out as quickly as you possibly can. I
have something to say to you.”
Arthur took just one glad leap into the open, landing upon his father’s
foot. Then, clapping his ear against his father’s lips, he listened with
a coy interest to his urgent whispers, until he was suddenly gripped by
the elbow and spun upon his heel.
“Get in at once, my boy, get in at once!” his parent was commanding. “At
once, I say. The train is about to go. Get in quickly ... quickly.”
Arthur fell in head-first, and arrived limply half on the seat and half
on the floor. Then he slowly clawed his way on to the cushions and
subsided. But now once again there sounded that terrible parent’s
staccato voice. The unhappy boy was hooked by the arm with an umbrella.
“It is not going yet after all,” he was told. “Come out again. Come out
for a moment. I have something to say to you.”
The wiry boy in the corner began to feel sorry for Arthur: he was
perspiring so very freely. However, there followed confidence after
confidence until, finally and for the last time, the father threw his
son bodily into the carriage like a sack of potatoes.
The blast of a whistle had reached his expectant ears.
“Get in! Get in!” he was crying. “For goodness’ sake do get in! What a
foolish boy you are. You will certainly miss the train. Be sure to
write. Good-bye ... good-bye ... good-bye!”
Then the train was really moving out of the station at last. Numberless
boys in Harley caps were scrambling into carriages, and as the little
man with the goatee beard gave one final wave of his glove to his
departing son, two young men cannoned into him from behind, and his hat
flew violently forwards and outwards, causing him to make a somewhat
ludicrous exit from the boy in the corner’s field of view. Next the
foremost of his assailants had sprung for the carriage door and they had
tumbled in.
One of the two seemed a little embarrassed at the diversion they had
caused, and sat down modestly in a corner. The other wiped his forehead,
and then turned and beheld Arthur with both interest and delight.
The portly Arthur was sitting stiffly upright and staring at his ticket
with wide protuberant eyes, the while he trembled like unto one smitten
with ague. He looked up at the boy in the corner and gaped. He tried to
speak. Words failed him. At last a low moan escaped his lips.
“My ticket! My ticket! Father has taken it away with him and he—” he
paused and collected himself for a bellow of despair—“he has given me
his own return ticket to _Ealing_!”
The boy in the corner looked at him as if one might have expected
something like this would have occurred after all that palaver, and the
brief silence that followed his sensational news was only broken by a
peculiar grunt that would not be stifled. Then up spoke one of the late
arrivals. Both were evidently boys of some seniority and wore bowler
hats. The one who spoke now had a lean and humorous countenance lit by
strangely bright eyes.
“Nick,” said he to his companion, “look out of the window. Do you see
anyone coming?”
The young gentleman addressed as Nick was beaming thoughtfully as if to
himself, and he did not at once obey.
“I will look myself,” said the other, rising impatiently and leaning far
out. “Yes, I can see a cloud of dust. Right in the middle of it there is
the figure of a man bounding along the road at such a break-neck speed
that his feet are scarcely touching the ground at all. It appears,” he
added, turning to Arthur, “to be your sportsmanlike father.” He coughed.
“His chances of catching us are somewhat small, of course. The train is
now going at full speed. Your father is certainly making a very fine
effort indeed ... his movements are not unlike those of a good-class
cat ... but he will, I fear, be outdistanced by the puff-puff. Your
father——”
The fat boy could stand this no longer. He pushed his head fiercely out
of the window under the other’s arm.
“Where?” he demanded. “Where’s my father?” He looked harder still.
“Why,” said he, “we’re only just out of the station. There’s no cloud of
dust at all.”
“No,” confessed the other. “Now that I come to look with my other eye I
must admit that I do not see it so clearly myself. Still there might
have been. It is a pretty picture to conjure up—your father absolutely
running himself to a standstill to get back his ticket to Ealing.”
After this there was silence for a little while. The bright-eyed youth
resumed his seat and appeared to be thinking things over. He threw his
bowler on to the rack and passed a hand thoughtfully over his hair.
At last he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and faced
Arthur.
Then he inclined his head sideways towards his fair-haired comrade.
“That robust-looking fellow over there is known as Terence Nicholson,”
said he, weighing his words. “He has been three years in the Harley
Cricket Eleven, and now he’s in the Rugger side, so be careful what you
say. His brother’s called ‘Old Nick,’ and he’s a master at school. Very
likely you’ll see him walking along the footboards on his hands if you
look outside. My own name,” he paused, in order to give added emphasis
to the noble word, “is Rouse.”
He did not care to introduce himself as the probable captain of Rugby
football during the coming term, for Rouse was not conceited about the
things that he _could_ do. Oddly enough he was only conceited about the
things that he could not.
“A beak called Mould,” he announced, “once told me when I was construing
Latin that I had a very inventive brain.” He tapped his forehead
significantly. “He was entirely correct. You see in me a man who thinks
for exercise rather than for profit, and it will comfort you to know
that I have already devised a way of escape for you in your astounding
dilemma. I ask myself: ‘Now how is this poor misguided creature ever
going to pass through the iron barriers of Harley with only a silly
little ticket to Ealing in his hand?’ And the answer is this: ‘I will
ask him to give that ticket to me.’”
The fat boy reached out a trembling hand and gave over his ticket
somewhat fearfully.
Rouse took it and solemnly tore it into a hundred pieces. The fat boy
screamed.
“Oh, you’ve spoilt it!”
“Certainly,” admitted Rouse, “it is a trifle bent. But why? Because now
nobody knows whether it is a ticket to Harley or the Federated Malay
States. Will they, however, suppose that you would be such an ass as to
buy a ticket to Ealing when you intended proceeding to Harley? I think
not. You have to give up your ticket at the other end, and you’ll give
it up, that’s all. It will be in pieces, but there’s no law against
that. The warden at the gate will say: ‘Hi, here you! What’s this?’ and
you’ll say: ‘That, sir, is my ticket,’ and you’ll pour it generously
into his open hands. He’ll never know. He’ll think it’s a practical
joke, scowl at you, and pass you through with the toe of his boot.”
There was an awed silence. Rouse was well satisfied with the effect of
his words. Suddenly however there spoke up Terence Nicholson from his
corner. It was the first time that he had been able to get a word in and
he spoke modestly.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is
green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.”
There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered
this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head
regretfully.
“There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t
grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.”
And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had
entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then
died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness.
At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous
protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading:
“Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common
with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that
except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most
useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a
suggestion, my lad.”
“Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the
truth.”
Rouse cleared his throat.
“Well, I think you may be right. It’ll be difficult for anyone to
believe _that_ poor boy capable of practising deceit. In fact one may
say that he looks strongly like a boy who could be depended upon to
forget his ticket.”
The train came suddenly into daylight again and Rouse stopped abruptly.
The fat boy was weeping.
Rouse stared at him for a moment, then looked askance at Terence, and
finally he turned a sternly prefectorial eye upon the boy in the corner
who had hitherto somewhat escaped his notice. The boy looked back at him
a little uncertainly with a half smile. He was not at all sure whether
it was good form to laugh at a boy who was crying. Rouse gave him no
hint. He just looked: and presently the other blinked at him
apologetically. Actually Rouse was deciding, as he afterwards told
Terence, what a peculiarly good-looking kid he was.
“What’s your name?” said he at last.
“Carr,” said the boy in the corner.
“And which house are you going to?”
“Mr Morley’s, I think.”
“Over that house,” said Rouse, “I weave my spell. Also Friend Nicholson
there. We were in that house when an arch-idiot named Mould ruled over
our form, and at one time I must confess we appeared to be sinking. Yet,
as we came up for the third time, so to speak, he was removed, and we
survived. You’ll find Morley all right.” He turned to Arthur a little
awkwardly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” said he courteously, “but
to which house are you being admitted?”
The fat boy did not raise his head. He simply continued to weep, and at
last there broke from his lips these sad words: “I want my t-t-ticket.”
Rouse fumbled in his pocket and at last produced a small piece of chalk.
“Here you are,” said he. “Draw yourself one on the wall.”
From that time onward the conversation was maintained solely by the
expectant captain of Rugby football. Nobody else seemed to have anything
to say, but he had a great deal. Terence Nicholson sat in his corner
with the reminiscent smile of the man one may notice in the stalls of
any theatre—the man who has seen the show twice before but who is
enjoying it all none the less for that.
Bobbie Carr listened with deep and genuine interest, but he said
nothing. He was too hypnotised. His large eyes followed Rouse’s every
movement and never wavered.
Arthur merely swayed backwards and forwards in his seat, and sometimes
when the train stopped with a jerk he was jolted forward on to the knees
of the boy in the corner, over whom he hung with sagging head; then when
the train started again was bumped back so that he cracked his skull
against the wall of the compartment, but he seemed not to care.
At last they reached Harley.
As soon as they had alighted the large figure of a man suddenly appeared
from nowhere and loomed over them. The man was dressed exceedingly well
and exceedingly comfortably in Harris tweeds. He wore a soft hat and a
club tie, and his large feet were enclosed in large brogue shoes. Even
his pipe was large. His hand reached out and rested upon Terence’s
shoulder. Finally he looked at Rouse.
“As for you,” said he, “it’s no use you saying you’re not there, because
I can see your ears flapping behind that grin.”
The gentleman addressed endeavoured to keep a straight face, whilst from
the near locality Arthur was to be heard lamenting his ill-fortune and
crying aloud for advice.
For the last year or so Terence had been doing his best to overtake Toby
in point of size, but he was still a trifle overshadowed by his
brother’s large form, and he stood beside him modestly, as if pleased to
claim a certain reflected glory. He could never see any reason for
self-conceit in the fact that he had been three years in the Harley
Cricket Eleven and one year in the First Fifteen. The only thing he was
really proud about was the fact that Toby was his brother.
“There’s rather bad news,” said Toby at last. “I’m afraid you’ll be very
sorry.”
They looked at him inquiringly.
“The Grey Man has been very ill,” said he, puffing slowly at his pipe,
“and he’s not coming back. We’ve got a new Head.”
The boy who had sat in the corner was standing hesitantly behind them,
and he was amazed to find Rouse struck dumb. For Rouse just stood and
looked first at Toby and then at Terence, and it was a long time before
he spoke.
Terence asked quietly: “Who’s coming instead of him then?”
And Toby answered: “He’s a man called Roe. That’s all I can tell you.”
And then the pair of them seemed to consider the news with a fresh
gravity, until at last Rouse shook his head sadly and said:
“I loved that man, you know.”
Coming from one who throughout the journey had seemed to be merely a
rather superior sort of clown, this statement took Bobbie Carr by
surprise. He stood there beside his bag, watching with wide eyes,
waiting for more. But little more came. Rouse was a young man who could
never make up his mind to grow up, and with the Grey Man he had never
had to don any hypocritical cloak of stiff severity just because he was
becoming one of the oldest boys at Harley, and he had got along very
well indeed. Perhaps it was going to be different now. He picked up his
bag and moved slowly away beside Terence, whilst Toby watched them go
slowly and sadly along the platform towards the barrier, and as Bobbie
followed after them he saw Rouse shake his head solemnly and heard him
say:
“It’s a bad business. A bad business. Except for Toby, he was about the
only master who’ll ever understand me, Terence, my lad.”
And when he knew them better Bobbie came to realise that it was only in
moments of considerable gravity that Rouse ever called his friend by his
proper Christian name.
At the barrier Rouse turned. He seemed suddenly to have remembered the
fat boy. At last he observed him making his way flat-footedly and in
extreme distress along the platform, and he beckoned.
Arthur increased his speed and came up alongside, breathing heavily and
with his mouth open. Rouse looked at him gravely. All the heart seemed
to have gone out of him. He drew the ticket-collector’s attention to the
fat boy indifferently.
“This boy,” said he, “has come without his ticket. Will you chronicle
the incident in your annals?”
The collector looked at him resentfully. In four years Rouse had never
yet passed his barrier without saying something to him which he could
not for the life of him understand.
“Will you,” continued Rouse, “record his history in your black book?”
The man turned patiently to the fat boy.
“You come without your ticket. How did you do that?”
“He found it easy,” observed Rouse in a hollow voice.
“What’s your name?”
Arthur trembled before the glare of the man in uniform, and stuttered
out the simple answer: “Coppin.”
“What will he do?” he inquired of Rouse as soon as they were clear of
the station.
“He will communicate with the Headmaster,” answered Rouse, “and you will
never be allowed to travel by train again.”
And then he lapsed into silence. At last Terence turned to look at him,
and Rouse glanced up and sighed.
“I shall miss the Grey Man,” said he. “The school won’t seem the same.”