SOMETHING UP HIS SLEEVE
One week later that bubbling effervescence which had been the outward
and visible sign of the school’s unrest had very largely subsided.
Harleyans were once more going in dignity about their ways.
At morning prayers those who knew best the temper of the school looked
out over the sea of faces, all of which seemed calmly set as if in
resignation.
It was true that there had been a couple of friendly matches between
houses, but real enthusiasm was lacking. There was over all that hard
fact that however well a fellow played he could not win his colours.
There were not going to be any colours. This hit the rising and
ambitious youngsters badly.
Roe himself had kept discreetly quiet.
The Head had made no further mention of the matter, except to cause it
to be known that his own son was Harley’s official Rugger captain.
And through this time of fasting, watching the lean year that had been
his dread as it came upon the school and gripped it, Rouse bore himself
blithely, true to himself, his sorrow hidden under a mask of gaiety that
only deceived the few.
One day Bobbie Carr received a letter, and the next day he went forth
into the open country and, striking the footpath that led from the
school into the woods, branched away from it and came upon a stile. Upon
this stile he settled himself to wait.
He had not to wait long, and this was fortunate, because he was
continually looking about him in fear lest somebody should come upon him
waiting there.
At last, looking over the open fields, he saw a distant figure coming
towards him along the trodden pathway, and he knew it at a glance. He
jumped up and waved, saw the answering gesture and started forward; then
suddenly remembered and stopped and looked round dubiously. He was best
hidden from prying eyes in the corner where he had waited, and so he
drew back under the trees and possessed himself in patience until at
last the man had come and he could grip him by the hands.
“Father,” said he.
The man drew him affectionately against the stile, and leaned there in
real content for a while before he spoke.
“It’s a roundabout way from the station,” he said at last. “Still, I
know the country. It’s a good meeting-place.”
He paused. There was clearly something else upon his mind—something that
had made him come; something that Bobbie had read between the lines of
his letter. He asked at last quietly enough:
“You’ve kept the secret, Bobbie? Nobody’s found out? Nobody knows?”
For the fraction of a second Bobbie hesitated. Then he spared his father
the truth that need not necessarily be told, and shook his head.
“I’ve told no one, of course.”
The man seemed honestly relieved. He began to ask questions about school
and the new life; the conversation opened on to a wider field. Time
passed.
It must have been an hour later that his father at last held out both
hands, said good-bye abruptly and turned away. Bobbie watched him as he
went slowly back along the pathway, and for the first time since he had
been at school he was conscious of a kind of home-sickness. His father
was so evidently lonely.
He did not turn until the figure on the pathway had passed out of sight,
and then he did so regretfully and started back to school. And as he
went his father’s warning drummed in his head: “Just this once and then,
I think, never again. But until it is over you must promise me that not
even your best friend here shall know your secret. You can’t understand
as I can what they would say of you here if they knew. And I may not be
able to keep my right name out of the papers.”
Those had been his father’s final words. And all the way back to the
school he kept remembering them.
Outside Morley’s Coles met him. He was carrying a handful of belongings
and he wore a cunning smile upon his countenance.
“Carr,” said he, “I have something to say to you.”
“Yes,” said Bobbie.
“I’m leaving Morley’s.” He paused. “It’s the Head,” he explained. “For
some reason or other he wants me in Seymour’s. There’s no help for it.
I’ll have to go. It’s an order.”
He gazed into the distance. Bobbie’s heart beat quickly with delight. To
lose Coles would be an unprecedented joy. It was a stroke of luck upon
which he had never reckoned. He turned to Coles with shining eyes and
seemed about to thank him cordially for going.
Coles looked down upon him with calculated craft.
“Don’t be under any misapprehension,” said he. “I have explained to the
Head exactly how things are—and you—are going too.”
Bobbie gaped.
“What? _Explained to him?_ What have you explained?”
“That I know your family, and that you are rather specially entrusted to
my care. I have told him how anxious I am to have you under my wing, and
so—he has at last consented to you coming too.”
After a minute’s utter silence he spoke again.
“You don’t seem overjoyed?”
Still Bobbie did not answer.
He was wondering how he would get on without Henry Hope at his side, and
what Henry would say about him going without a word of protest.
“Anyway,” said the persecutor, “don’t forget our bargain. If there
should be any talk of you staying behind, if they should ask you, you’ll
know what to say, won’t you?” He waited a moment, looking at Bobbie
straightly. “Won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie at last. “I suppose so.”
* * * * *
It was evening.
Over a study table Terence and Rouse faced one another. Rouse had his
chin resting in one hand, and his expression was that of a young man
wrestling with a mighty problem.
“You see,” said he, “Seymour’s have challenged us to a friendly.”
“Who really issued the challenge?”
“That,” admitted Rouse, “I don’t quite know. It appears to have
originated from Mr Seymour himself, and to have been received by Mr
Morley—probably in a parchment envelope handed up on a silver salver.”
“Never mind,” said Terence. “Let’s play them.”
“Oh yes, we’ll play them. Only I’m trying to reason out what’s in the
wind. You see, Roe is in Seymour’s.”
“True. I’d forgotten that.”
“And the chances are that if he wants to captain the side the other
fellows in Seymour’s will have something to say about it.”
“I suppose they want to play us because we’re the strongest house and
they rather fancy their weight.”
“One would imagine that was the idea. Only neither Betteridge nor
Saville seems to know much about it.”
Rouse suddenly leaned forward.
“Nick,” said he, “there’s villainy afoot.”
“Villainy?”
“Yes. I don’t know what that means. It’s a phrase of Henry’s concoction.
We might get hold of a cheap dictionary and get an interpretation of the
words.... Anyway, that’s what he says—and it’s impossible to listen to
Henry for long without coming to the conclusion that there’s something
in what he says.”
“What is the villainy?”
“Henry is now out on the trail trying to find out. But his judgment
arises from a variety of facts and certain suspicions.”
He paused and for a while there was silence.
“As a matter of fact,” said Terence, at last, “there’s something on your
mind, old top, and you may as well tell me what it is.”
Rouse succumbed.
He leaned forward, almost as if grateful for this touching invitation.
“Well, it’s this. Supposing the chaps get tired of all this? Supposing
an agitator or two start moving about amongst them, saying: ‘Hang it
all, what does it matter to you or me _who_ the captain is? Let’s get
our footer’? Supposing the masters get on to them and say: ‘Your
schooldays are the happiest time of your life and they will never come
again. Why starve yourselves of all that makes them most worth while
just because of a silly prejudice?’ You see what I mean? Supposing they
give in?”
“Well, supposing they do?”
“Nothing,” said Rouse, in a small voice; “only it would make me look
rather a fool.”
“Also,” said Terence, “in the light of all they’ve said it would show
that they hadn’t got much respect for the traditions of the school. You
still don’t understand the temper of the school in the least or you
wouldn’t talk like that. Why on earth _should_ they give in?”
“Because,” said Rouse, “it’s my belief that there’s somebody at work
trying to make them. Why,” he demanded, after a moment’s pause, “are the
Head and his abominable son so suspiciously quiet? Nearly three weeks of
term have gone. Why are they making no attempt to bring the chaps to
heel as promised? Soon the headmasters of other schools and the parents
of some of the fellows here will be writing to the Head to ask why we
are not playing footer. I tell you they’re sitting quiet because they’re
waiting for something to happen. I believe Henry’s right. There’s
villainy afoot.”
He glared at Terence challengingly.
In the following silence there came the sound of footsteps in the
passage and both looked up. The footsteps were stopping at the study
door. There came a knock.
“Come in,” said Rouse.
They turned in their chairs to see who came. There was a second’s
dramatic wait. Then the door moved open and the visitor came in. He
looked at them over the tops of his spectacles and made slowly for the
table, and reaching it, he stood there looking first at one and then at
the other.
“What is it, Henry?” asked Rouse.
“It’s this,” said Henry. “All that I told you is true. This evening
Coles is moving into Seymour’s. He says that it’s an order from the
Head.” He stopped and watched the effect of this news upon them. And
then he said: “All Coles’ friends are in Seymour’s. Of course you know
that.”
Still they made no comment. They were only looking at each other
significantly.
Henry made ready to drop his bomb.
“That’s enough,” said he. “It makes a lot of things clear to me. But
it’s not all. I told you Coles had a hold over that kid Carr. Well,
Carr’s going over to Seymour’s _with_ him—and he’s very nearly blubbing
about it. That’s all.”
Rouse had struck the table with his fist. The mystery of the challenge
was at last transparent to him.
“But ... Carr?” said Terence. “Why? Why Carr? Why’s _he_ going?”
“Because,” said Henry, “Coles says that he was put in his care by Carr’s
own people, and the Head believes him.”
“Well, what’s _Coles_ going for himself? What’s the idea? Why is it?”
Henry drew himself up. His eyes were blazing behind the round windows of
his spectacles. He clenched his hands.
“What’s he going for?” said he. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff. He’s
going to join hands with the enemy. He knows that he hasn’t a chance
here, in the very house where Rouse is loved most, and so he’s going.
Coles has got something up his sleeve.”
“Henry,” said Terence, “you may be right. I believe you are. But there’s
one thing you don’t know.”
“What?” said Henry, as if unable to believe the accusation.
“This. If Coles is reckoning on playing upon the feelings of the chaps
who want their Rugger, then Smythe has got something up _his_ sleeve
that’ll knock Coles silly.”