THE FIRST ROUND
Christopher Woolf Roe was in a painful predicament. Behind him, urging
him on, he felt the hot breath of impending paternal wrath, and knew
that if he failed in this, the most important duty his father had ever
set him, he would be disgraced; as likely as not he would at no far
distant date be cut off with the proverbial shilling. Already his father
was growing impatient. The notion that he was having to await the
school’s pleasure before securing their obedience was to him exceedingly
displeasing. The exemplary patience he had displayed when first the
helpfulness of Coles had come before his notice had not proved of an
abiding nature. Moreover, the gradual attention of outsiders was being
attracted to the school. The scratching of their fixtures for the season
had been commented upon, and he felt that unless evidence of the
successful nature of his handling of this situation were forthcoming
very shortly his dignity would be seriously endangered. Of all this his
unhappy son was fully aware, yet he could see before him only the
adamant forbearance of a school unanimously resolute, and the keen
dislike in which he was personally held was not at all encouraging.
Altogether things were rotten.
Coles, however, had certainly been exceptionally decent, and his charm
of manner had weighed a good deal with the Head too. There was comfort
to be gained from the certainty that Coles knew what was what. Coles was
a very good fellow. He was very grateful to Coles.
“Leave it to me,” Coles had said, and he had left it to Coles willingly.
Standing in the centre of a small group Coles was striving one afternoon
to justify this touching confidence. He had spoken at length. Ultimately
he looked round the solemn countenances of those about him to judge the
effect of his words. Except upon the faces of his two cronies, who,
since they were not prominent footballers, were not of great account, he
could not see one hopeful sign. For the rest there was a stiffly
decorous silence. At last Saville, who, as one of the only two old
colours in Seymour’s, had been leaning gracefully against a wall, raised
his voice.
“The point at issue is this,” he announced. “You can’t get away from the
fact that the Head has insulted our house by thrusting his son on us
like this, and we’re very sore. So far we haven’t even had the face to
turn out a house team at footer simply because we were afraid that Roe
might want to play. Now some misguided idiot—apparently Seymour
himself—has gone to Morley in secret and arranged a challenge which
Morley’s have accepted, and after that it’s clearly up to us to play.
But we don’t want Roe on the side, and we’re not going to have him.”
“Oh, come,” said Coles, plausibly enough. “Be broad-minded about it. You
don’t suppose Roe’s very happy about all this, do you? It isn’t a very
jolly position for a fellow. I’ve had a few chats with him, and I can
tell you he’d far rather not be here. What’s the use of denying
ourselves even house Rugger just to spite him out of a game? What’s
wrong with playing for the house? Most of us are nearly eating our
hearts out for a game.”
“You haven’t got much to grumble about,” said Saville pertly. “You had
two games for Morley’s before you came here. And now that I come to
think of it, why _did_ you come here? Can you tell us that?”
Coles shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve never been able to find out. But it’s my personal belief that it
was just an idea of the Head’s to break up what he thought was Rouse’s
clique.”
“Why didn’t he move Nick, then?”
Coles was unable to reply. He made a little further play with his
shoulders.
“I’ll tell you why it was,” said Saville. “It was because, having shoved
his confounded son in here, he wanted to build up a strong house side
for him to have at his back. And he pounced on you for a start because
he thought you might be amenable to reason. A little later on he’ll move
someone else in here, so that eventually Rouse will be left with a dud
house team, and we in Seymour’s shall have the nucleus of a school
Fifteen. He thinks we shall be as pleased as Punch about that and keep
on clapping his son on the back every time we see him.”
Coles shook his head.
“I don’t think that for a minute.”
“Well, I do,” opined Betteridge, from a modest position on the outskirts
of the group.
Coles turned and looked at him as if pointing him out with his beak-like
nose.
“And,” added the interrupter, “so do a good many other people.”
“You’re all making a great mistake,” said Coles. “In years to come
you’ll be sorry you mucked your Rugger like this. Personally I was
always in favour of Rouse as skipper, and I think that to have brought
his own son here was a beastly thing for the Head to have done, and so
does Roe himself. But that’s no reason for cutting off your own nose to
spite your face. It’s agreed that we don’t lose any dignity by indulging
in house friendlies, and if we’re going to play a match let’s get out
our best side. I believe Roe is a very hot forward, and even if we won’t
let him be captain that’s no reason why the poor blighter shouldn’t have
a game. He needn’t be skipper.”
“Ah!” said Saville, “that’s just it. He’ll want to be.”
Coles made a sly gesture with his hand.
“You leave it to me. I’ll have a word with him. He’ll quite see your
point of view. We’ll fix that up all right.”
“We should like him to come on the field walking a modest distance
behind everybody else,” said Betteridge. “That’s what we should like.
You might tell him that, will you?”
“You leave that to me,” repeated Coles magnanimously. “He’ll quite see
the sense of not forcing himself to the front. And I do think it’d be a
pretty rotten exhibition of sportsmanship to tell him he can’t even play
on the side at all.”
He paused and looked round them blandly. Nobody responded to his
glances; every head had turned instead towards the big clock over the
school which was striking the hour, and next moment the group had
swiftly dispersed and Coles was left alone looking after them. He was
himself in no special hurry. As a matter of fact, he had an appointment
with the house master.
At last he slowly pursed his lips and nodded his head.
They would let Roe play. Half the battle had been won.
* * * * *
It was a day to be appreciated, and in token of the fact the whole of
Morley’s were ranged along one touch-line and the greater part of
Seymour’s along the other, whilst sprinkled here and there in the crowd
were representatives of lesser houses expressing their opinion on this
game in the detached manner of disinterested onlookers. There were also
a couple of spare balls being kicked about, and even those who had never
the patience to watch houses other than their own playing had come
running to the scene at the prospect of getting in a few kicks
themselves. After all, in these days good Rugger was rare. Except where
Morley’s were concerned, there had not been any great zest in the house
friendlies played to date. It had been too evident that these games
would not lead to anything.
But a trial of strength between Morley’s and Seymour’s, with the latter
strengthened by the inclusion of Coles at the expense of the former,
gave promise of being a little out of the ordinary. Besides Rouse was
playing on one side, and it was understood that Roe might be discovered
upon the other. There was a chance of the two meeting.
“Perhaps,” one young man said hopefully, “perhaps Rouse’ll scrag him.”
There came at last a significant stir along the crowded ropes. The
reason was apparent. Morley’s were coming out.
From the stone steps beside the cloisters from which the chosen of
Seymour’s would presently appear Coles had stood watching, and now he
turned suddenly to those below and nodded to them.
“Morley’s have gone out,” said he. “Are we all here?” There was no
immediate answer. He glanced at the young man beside him. “Come along,
Roe. We’ll move off.”
The words were scarcely above a whisper, but Roe turned obediently and
proceeded into the open beside him, seemingly proud and happily at his
ease. Out on to the gravel path he went, and then quite suddenly he was
struck by a curious silence behind him, and he turned and cautiously
looked over his shoulder. Then he understood. The team were huddled in a
group at the bottom of the steps, staring after him dully, very still
and very haughty, and not one fellow amongst them all had so much as
moved his foot.
He reached out nervously and plucked at Coles’ arm.
“I say ... stop ... I say ... they aren’t coming! They haven’t moved!”
The peculiar stupidity of his position struck him then with force.
“We’re _all alone_.”
Coles stopped and spun on his heel. Next moment he had darted back down
the steps, but Roe stood like a derelict pig where he had been left,
frozen with astonishment, looking first towards the field where Morley’s
were waiting and then towards the team who wouldn’t come. From every
possible direction boys were staring at him rudely. He knew the
horrifying shame of some scene-shifter slow in removing himself from the
stage and discovered in a ridiculous attitude at the lifting of the
curtain.
Coles had darted into that flock like an angry shepherd, but they
stubbornly refused to scatter.
“What is it? Why don’t you come? Morley’s are waiting.” He made an
impatient gesture. “What’s the trouble?”
Betteridge replied. He was standing with folded arms, Napoleonically,
outside the changing-room, and he spoke emphatically:
“It’s only a matter of form. But isn’t it usual for the captain of the
side to go out first?”
“Great Scott, what does it matter? Isn’t the game the thing that counts
most? As a matter of fact, you may not know it, but the Head’s outside.
He’s been standing over there in the corner for the last ten minutes and
he’s waiting to see us come out. The reason Roe went out with me was
because if he didn’t the Head would be as wild as anything. He’s only
walking with me so as to satisfy the Head. He doesn’t care twopence
whether he’s captain of the side or not.”
“And what’s the idea of _you_ going in front?” asked Betteridge, and his
tone was very cold. “Until to-day the supposition has been that Saville
was captain of footer in Seymour’s.”
There was a moment’s ominous silence.
Coles stared at him fixedly. At last he answered:
“I see what’s in the wind. A little petty jealousy. As a matter of fact,
I believe I’m the senior man in the First Fifteen here, and I saw no
particular need to wait for anyone else to go first. All I wanted was to
prevent giving the idea that Roe was shoving himself to the front.”
“The understanding was,” said Betteridge, “that Roe was going to walk
behind. As for you being senior in the First Fifteen, there isn’t any
First Fifteen! All we’re concerned with here is the house side, and
Saville happens to be the elected captain.”
“It doesn’t matter a cuss to me,” snapped Coles, “who walks on first. It
isn’t a confounded Court procession, is it? My idea is to get a game of
Rugger, and you raving idiots are going the right way to get house
Rugger stopped altogether by the Head. You can bet your life that if the
Head sees Roe walking on all alone and behind everybody else, when he’s
been appointed captain, he’ll have something rather interesting to say
about it.” He made a sudden angry gesture. His hot temper was rising
swiftly to the surface. “Personally, I’m going out to the field how I
like and I’m not going to wait for anyone else to tell me when I’m to
go, and if by the time I get to the half-way line you chaps are still
crouching down here, I’ll tell Rouse the match is off.”
“I think he’ll understand that as soon as he sees you walking arm-in-arm
with Roe,” said Saville, speaking for the first time. “And I rather
imagine you’ll be chased off the field. It may turn out that these seats
will be the best after all for watching that part of the show.”
[Illustration:
“‘THE MATCH IS SCRATCHED, SIR,’ SAID HE.”]
“What the deuce do you mean?” cried Coles, in a sudden scream of wrath.
“Do you mean to say I’m trying to curry favour with the Head?”
“I mean to say,” said Saville, “that it was your idea that Roe should be
allowed to play, and we agreed on the distinct understanding that he
wasn’t going to be captain. Now it’s your idea that he should walk in
front, and I wonder you don’t want to go and sprinkle roses in front of
him as he goes.”
“It’s for the sake of the game, you utter ass! What do I care who goes
in front! I want my Rugger.”
“Then you can jolly well have it,” snapped Betteridge. “And you can play
it in your own backyard.”
Coles turned towards him, and for one moment he looked as if he could
have jumped down and attacked him with his fists. But there came instead
a new diversion. Across the steps there swept the shadow of the Head.
Then he stood magisterially before them, and finally he singled out
Coles.
“What is the delay?” said he. “What are you waiting for?”
Before Coles could answer Saville had stepped forward.
“The match is scratched, sir,” said he. “I am just going out to
apologise to Rouse for keeping them waiting so long.”
He ran up the steps and went out into the open. The Head turned and
stared after him indignantly. His own intended words had been taken out
of his mouth. He had meant only to ascertain without doubt that this
scene was on account of his son before himself stepping in and
forbidding play. He had been forestalled. Saville was trotting towards
the touch-line. The ranks of expectant onlookers opened and let him
through. The Head saw Rouse come to meet him, saw him lift his hand and
rest it upon Saville’s shoulder, watched them as they spoke. Then Rouse
had turned to those nearest to him and explained. The air became very
still. Saville had been so clearly the forerunner of sensation. Heads
were turned towards the unhappy Roe still standing in splendid isolation
on the gravel path, then back to Saville. Finally all eyes settled upon
Rouse. He was collecting his team regretfully and there was something in
his manner that showed how sorry he was that this had happened. Then
Morley’s were walking off the field.
All this the Head watched with set eyes, and at last he turned again to
that sullen group at the bottom of the steps, regarded them for a
moment, then snapped out his dictum:
“Find Mr Nicholson for me, one of you. Tell him that I wish to speak to
him in my study at once.”
And all the while Coles stood beside the Headmaster, staring dully into
the distance. For this was the first round and he had lost.
It was Betteridge who found Toby and told him, and with just a nod of
the head Harley’s games master went sorrowfully along the pathway toward
the Head’s room and disappeared through the old oak door, whilst the
crowd who had been expecting a dashing game of Rugby football turned
almost disconsolately to watch him go. The next five minutes were full
of the calm that precedes the outburst of a storm. No one so much as
kicked a football into the air. They could only wait now for the worst,
knowing that somehow or other the Head was going to hit back.
Those dull five minutes were barely passed before Toby came into sight
again, walking just as solemnly as before. Saville was moving his way
and Toby stopped him. His voice was very tense.
“The Head has just told me that after to-day he forbids house
friendlies, or any football of any kind, until the captain he selected
is recognised by the school. The fellows have chosen a hunger strike and
so he intends that it shall be a proper one. He’s hit back with your own
weapon.” He paused and looked at Saville earnestly. “It’s going to be a
lean year in earnest now. And I only wish I could see where it’s going
to end.”