THE CUP OF BITTERNESS
The Headmaster’s forecast of how the school would feel when they woke up
on the morning after, and of how they would take the news, was very
tolerably correct. Some heard the truth overnight and scarcely slept.
But it was not till breakfast-time on the Sunday morning that the report
could properly be spread. By dinner-time it had found its way into the
farthest corners of the school, and that everybody knew was evident by
the bump with which the school’s good spirits fell. Most boys had
wakened in excellent humour, refreshed after a good night, eager to talk
over with others the outstanding points of that great game, and full of
satisfaction at having been at the school during a term when such an
historic match had been played.
They were ready, too, for fresh sensations. That followed as a matter of
course. Very few really believed that that expedition could have taken
place without somehow coming to the notice of the Head, and the air was
alive with surmise as to what he would do.
The news of what he had already done hit them with a thud.
At first it seemed incredible—that part which concerned Toby, anyway.
And then when confirmation of it came from every available source, and
there could be no further doubt, the school bowed their heads to the
blow, and Harley passed into mourning.
There were many who could not believe that there was not some way out.
The ban on games was not so very terrible. But that, because of that
match with Rainhurst, Toby Nicholson should go, and with him the school
boxing coach and the gym. instructors, was too shockingly bad to be
true. Everybody had known why Toby had gone to town that day. He had
known about the match, and so he had kept away. Now he was to pay the
penalty for not denouncing it. For a while brains were dulled. The
brightest boys could think of no way of escape save humble apology to
the Head or open riot. The latter could scarcely save Toby; it might in
the end only serve to aggravate the general position, and the former was
almost more than they could visualise. It would, in any case, only mean
sacrificing Rouse to save Toby.
In every study friends sat together in silent wretchedness. There was
scarcely a face in all the school that had not grown noticeably longer
since morning. Rouse was little to be seen. A few had passed him walking
across the open, with head erect and a face that was quite
expressionless, but none except seniors had had a word with him, and
even they could not guess accurately what his real feelings were. That
he was keeping them to himself, and that he was very badly hit, was the
most they could report.
Terence only was with him in his study when Toby knocked quietly at the
door, just before dinner-time, and came in, and Rouse got up stiffly and
stood at the table watching him as he entered, palpably afraid to hope
for any better news.
“Is it true, sir?” said he at last. “Did he mean it?”
Toby rested his hands cheerfully upon his hips.
“It’s true, yes; but after all, term’s nearly over. It’s not so very
awful.”
Rouse drew away.
“But it’s my fault. That’s the trouble. The Head told me so. He got at
me.” He paused. There was silence for a moment. Then he said again: “He
got at me.”
“How?”
“Somehow he’d come to know that the fellows had planned to share the
blame. He said I was afraid to take it on my own shoulders. He said it
was my personal vanity that the school would have to suffer for now.
Because I was too conceited——”
Toby stopped him.
“He didn’t tell me that. He said that I was clearly too recently a
schoolboy to carry proper weight with the fellows here now. His idea was
that it would do me a great deal of good to go to another school for a
while and gain experience in handling youngsters, and then in a year or
so’s time perhaps come back here, with a heavier manner about me, and
try again. He considers that half the trouble here this term has been
because I have not exercised proper influence with you chaps. He is
prepared to recommend me to a post at another school. But to strengthen
his own position here, he wants me to go this week and not to wait till
the end of the term. That’s all.”
Rouse shook his head.
“No,” said he. “He was right. It’s my fault; and besides, how about
Wilcox and the gym. sergeants?”
“Wilcox has had notice,” answered Toby. “The Head is going to recommend
him for another job, too. The gym. sergeants are to shut up the gym. and
go for a holiday. And they’re to wait instructions. But he doesn’t want
me to come back whilst you two are here. He thinks I’ve a bad influence
over you somehow or other.”
“What shall we do?” asked Terence, speaking for the first time. “Where
will you go?”
“I shall go for a holiday,” he answered. “And,” he added, “_you’ve_ got
to cheer up. You’ve had your good time. You played the match. My biggest
regret is that I wasn’t there to see it. I don’t mind my gruelling. You
mustn’t mind yours.”
* * * * *
Now there was throughout this mournful Sunday only one study in Harley
that held a young man whose countenance was not distressed. Upon this
young man’s lips there was, as a matter of fact, a decided smile. He sat
at his table looking cheerfully across the room at Christopher Woolf
Roe, and when he spoke his voice was light.
“When I first heard it,” he was saying, “I was frightfully fed up,
because I’d a pretty decent chance of being captain of boxing next year
and I’ve been practising a good deal, whilst there’s been no footer. It
seemed to me that this rather upset my apple-cart. I had a sudden vision
of boxing being barred next term, just like footer has been this, and I
can tell you I didn’t like it. But I can see now that after all it isn’t
at all a bad scheme of your father’s. He’s caught them on the hop.
To-day everybody will be Rugger mad. And this is the time to get them.
You and I may be able to give some colours away even yet. Did you tell
your father about my plan?”
“Well, I told him you had one, but as a matter of fact he got rather
annoyed.”
Coles was decidedly taken aback.
“Annoyed? Why?”
“He seemed to think it was a bit patronising of you to make a plan at
all.”
“Oh, nonsense!” snapped Coles. “He didn’t understand. You didn’t explain
it properly.”
“I didn’t have time.”
Coles shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, anyway, I shall try it all the same, and then when he finds out
how successful it turns out perhaps he’ll alter his mind. When I first
got the idea I never thought I’d have such a topping chance as this to
put it into effect. Just imagine Rouse’s feelings now. If ever he’s
going to do what we want, now’s the chance. If he needs anything to help
him decide we ought to send it to him. My original idea was just to play
on the fact that he’d had his day and he ought to be satisfied, and let
the school get on with it. This is twenty times better. It’s a dead
snip.” He laughed shortly. After a moment he opened a book upon the
table and took from between the pages a sheet of plain paper. This he
passed with evident pride to Roe. “Would you recognise that writing?”
said he.
Roe peered at it thoughtfully.
“No,” said he at last. “It looks like some kid’s.”
* * * * *
Curiously enough, Terence expressed exactly the same opinion when that
sheet of paper was handed to him a few hours later. He added, however, a
brief proviso.
“Naturally,” said he, “a fellow who wants to write an anonymous letter
doesn’t use his own handwriting.”
Rouse had moved to his side and was reading it through again with solemn
eyes. At last he spoke.
“Do you think that’s true? Whoever he is, do you think he’s right?”
“I think he’s off his nut.”
Rouse laid the paper upon the table and carefully smoothed it out. Then
he sat down and began to read it through all over again.
It was quite a short note. It had no proper beginning and no ending. It
purported to be a mere statement of fact.
“There is a general feeling in the school,” it read, “that as you have
had your ambition and led the school team on the footer field you ought
to give way now. The fellows think that if it’s a question of
sacrificing either you or Mr Nicholson, it ought not to be Mr Nicholson
who must suffer for what was your idea. Some of us have decided to let
you know this.”
For a little while Rouse sat with his head propped in his hands staring
at it fixedly, and eventually he sat back.
“Whoever it was,” said he, “he read my thoughts very well indeed. What
he’s written down is exactly what I’ve been thinking all day. The only
thing I’m afraid of is this. Supposing I go to the Head and give in.
Supposing I promise to play under Roe and get the school to recognise
him as captain. What will the Head do? Will he play the game? I’ve got a
horrible fear at the back of my head that he won’t. I can picture the
way he’ll smile. He’ll say that he’s very glad to hear it. And then if I
say: ‘Now, will you let Mr Nicholson stay?’ he’ll open his eyes at me
and say: ‘Good gracious, boy, I’m not here to make bargains. My decision
of last night was not a threat; it was a punishment.’ And then I shall
have humbled the school for nothing.”
Terence moved towards him again and gripped him by the shoulders.
“Look here. Don’t you do anything confoundedly idiotic. Leave the Head
absolutely alone. We’re not going to let a man win a fight by hitting
below the belt. Toby can look after himself. As he says, it’s nearly the
end of term already. We’ll see it out. This rotten note is a lie from
start to finish. There’s no such feeling in the school at all. Don’t you
be guyed by a thing like this.”
“Well, who’s written it?” demanded Rouse. “Tell me that. The thing was
left lying on this table. Somebody must have put it there.”
Terence took it up once more.
“Let’s have another look,” said he.
Next moment there came a gentle tap at the door, and the one who in all
the school Rouse would have least wanted to see that note came in, and
he sprang up quickly. It was Toby.
Rouse looked at Terence with quick meaning, but Terence ignored him.
“Here, Toby,” said he, “you’re just the chap we want. Have a look at
this.”
Rouse sprang towards it.
“No. Give it to me. It’s mine. My mind’s made up. That doesn’t make any
difference at all.”
“Yes, it does,” said Terence sharply. “It’s getting at you. You believe
it’s true.”
“It is true. Give it to me. I want it.”
Terence pushed him away, then stretched out his hand towards Toby.
“Take it,” he said. “Tell Rouse what you think of a thing like this.”
Toby came towards him with a puzzled manner. He glanced quickly at
Rouse, and noting his expression turned to Terence; then in the scramble
for possession, he suddenly snatched the sheet of paper out of his hand
and moved aside with it. Rouse stopped abruptly and looked at him
hopelessly, while Terence, glaring defiantly, sat down at last in a
chair and said:
“Don’t be such an ass. Why shouldn’t he see it? It’s only Toby.”
There was a short silence.
At last Toby looked at them each in turn.
“Where did you get this?”
“He found it on the table when he came in after dinner,” said Terence.
“Who do you suppose put it there?”
“I only wish I knew.”
“D’you know who wrote it?”
“No,” said Terence. “Either someone’s disguised his handwriting or else
it’s a mere kid.”
“What does it matter anyway?” said Rouse. “It’s true, and that’s an end
of it.”
Toby was reading it through again and looking carefully at the writing.
“As a matter of fact,” he said at last, “I can tell you who wrote this.”
The two chums turned to him.
“There’s only one fellow I know of who makes a ‘T’ like that,” said
Toby. “It’s a pretty good effort at hiding his hand, but it’s not quite
good enough. I could identify that ‘T’ anywhere. I’ve seen it too often.
The fellow who wrote this is in my form.”
He waited a moment as if that were an intentional hint.
“Well?” said Terence.
“Carr wrote this.”
There was a moment’s utter stillness. At last Terence made a peculiar
noise in his throat and turned contemptuously away. Rouse moved slowly
towards Toby, and taking the note from him again looked at it once more.
Then he said:
“Carr? Why on earth should Carr write a thing like this?”
“Oh, you ass,” cried Terence, jumping up with a wild gesture. “Can’t you
see it? Haven’t you tumbled yet? Why, good Lord, man! whose fag is
Carr?”
“Coles’,” said Rouse, in a whisper.
“Yes,” repeated Terence, “Coles’.” He waited a moment. “And so,” he
added, “Carr wrote that because he was made to. Hasn’t Coles got a hold
on the kid? Didn’t Henry tell us that Carr was the only fellow who
wasn’t delighted about the match? Do you wonder he wasn’t delighted when
he knew he’d got to write something like this on the strength of it?
Coles probably intended to send you a note like this anyway. The Head’s
given him a better opening than he ever bargained for, that’s all. Carr
wrote it, yes. And Coles made it up.”
Rouse turned very slowly upon his heel and faced him.
“Then,” said he, “if that’s so, it may have been Coles who let the Head
know that all you fellows had promised to share the blame if there were
any trouble about this match.”
“I should say it most certainly was. He probably told Roe and got him to
pass it on.”
“Yes,” said Rouse thoughtfully. “Yes. I suppose that would be it.”
For a moment or two he stood like a man awaking from a trance. His eyes
passed slowly and unseeingly round well-known objects about the study,
and came to rest at last upon Toby’s thoughtful countenance.
“Did you want to see me, sir?”
“What I came in about will wait,” said Toby. “But now that I’m here I
should just like to say this. If you do anything fat-headed—anything on
the lines of that letter—it will be strictly against my wishes, and
absolutely against the best interests of the school. If you lose your
nerve now you may undo all the good that your example has done for the
school throughout this term. I am going to-morrow, and when I leave here
I want to be sure that you will carry on the good work you have been
doing all the way through the term. I want you to promise me not to give
in just because—it hurts. It’s not for your sake, it’s for the good of
Harley.”
“Yes, that’s all right, sir,” said Rouse, in a peculiarly small voice.
“I quite understand. You can trust me to see that the chaps hang on to
the end ... now. I wasn’t thinking of that so much. Only if you don’t
want me particularly I’d like you to excuse me a moment?” He paused. “I
should like,” he added, “to go along and find Coles.”
The brothers Nicholson looked first at him and then at one another.
Clearly the same thoughts had entered either mind.
It was Terence who spoke.
“There’s only one thing,” said he. “I ought to just mention it. You
haven’t forgotten that Coles is something of a boxer? You remember he
won the heavyweights last year?”
Rouse nodded his head.
“I know.”
“That’s all right then,” said Terence. “Would you like me to wait here?”
“You can wait anywhere you like,” said Rouse, “as long as you don’t come
too.” He began to walk out of the door, then turned and spoke over his
shoulder. “Yes,” he said rather more graciously, “I _should_ rather like
you to be here when I come back if you don’t mind waiting.”
He went out and closed the door behind him, then he began to walk
quickly along the corridor and down the stairs. Out in the open he
became an object of general interest. He was conscious that all who met
him glanced at him in curiosity. He gave no sign of his feelings at all.
He looked at one or two that he met and nodded to them cheerfully. At
last he was opposite Seymour’s, and he went in and mounted the stairs
two at a time.
Outside Coles’ study he stopped just for a second and knocked. Then he
went in. At first there appeared to be nobody inside. But he glanced
into the corner where an easy-chair was placed before the fire and
observed a tuft of hair showing above it. He moved forward and leaned
over. Coles was sitting there asleep. His mouth was open and his
features limp. A plain young man awake, he was widely renowned for his
extreme ugliness when asleep. Rouse dropped his hand on to his shoulder
and shook him vigorously. There came a distant growling. Rouse continued
to shake.
“What on earth is it?” muttered the object in the chair, slowly opening
his eyes. “Who wants me? Why don’t you——” He recognised Rouse with a
start and stopped abruptly. “Hullo!” he said. He rose somewhat foolishly
and began to smooth his hair with his hands. “I was asleep.”
“Yes,” said Rouse calmly. “So I noticed. I’m just about to put you to
sleep _again_ too.”
“Eh?”
Rouse explained.
“I’m going to hit you under the chin,” said he, “and I hope it’ll hurt.
I thought you’d like to know.”
At first Coles only stared at him confusedly, but presently the effects
of sleep began to pass from him, and he collected his thoughts and made
ready to deal with the situation. He went over Rouse’s surprising
statement word for word, in silent communion with his inner self,
analysing it with evident care, and at length he looked up at Rouse
queerly.
“You’re going to hit me under the chin? But why are you going to do
that?”
He did not seem particularly disturbed at the prospect. He was merely
politely interested. Possibly this was because he was very well aware
that he himself could box and that Rouse could not.
Rouse did not waste words. He laid that strangely significant sheet of
paper upon the table rather as if it were a mandate, and pointed at it
wrathfully.
“I think you’ve seen that before?”
Coles leaned forward indifferently.
“What is it? I can’t see.”
Next moment it was thrust angrily before his eyes and held there.
“Can you see it now?” said Rouse. “Is that _your_ composition?”
Coles read it through coolly.
“Are you under the impression that I wrote this?”
“I know who wrote it,” said Rouse. “I’m asking you whether you made it
up.”
Coles weighed his answer with care.
“If I wanted to write a note to you I should put my name to it. This has
been written by some kid.”
Rouse folded the paper up and put it in his pocket with some
deliberation.
“We won’t argue about it. I didn’t really expect you to admit the truth.
But I wanted to mention it to you so that you’d understand what the
trouble was about. There’s another thing as well. Can you tell me how
the Head found out that everybody who played in the match yesterday had
promised to take a fair share of the blame if there were any trouble?”
“I wasn’t even aware that he did find out.”
“Well, he did. And that’s one reason why he decided to punish the whole
school by sending Mr Nicholson away. I suppose, as a matter of fact, you
told Roe?”
Coles pushed his chair angrily away from him and faced Rouse across a
clear space. When next he spoke his voice was thick. His wicked temper
was rising rapidly beyond control.
“Is this all you came in for? Did you butt in here and wake me up just
to chuck lies at me, or is there anything else you want to say? If not
you can get out, and as quickly as you like. You may think you’re still
captain of footer, and you may think sheer swank will carry you through
to the end of the term. But it won’t go much further with me. I’ve had
enough of it. Either get out or apologise.”
[Illustration:
“I THINK YOU’VE SEEN THAT BEFORE?”]
Rouse drew back a little. He was slowly turning up the sleeves of his
jacket.
“I came in here to hit you under the chin. As soon as you’re ready I’ll
begin.”
Coles looked at him with a certain narrow satisfaction, then pushed the
table to one side and moved a chair.
“You can see how much space there is here. You’ll have to stand up to
it. It won’t be much use running round the room when you find how it
hurts.”
Then as he put up his hands Rouse stepped in without delay and struck at
him with his clenched fist. What followed was very much what might have
been expected. For a little while Rouse appeared likely to slaughter his
man before the fight had really got going. His blows knew the utter fury
of one who fights with right upon his side but very little science. Any
one of these blows would, had they landed fairly and squarely upon their
target, have put Coles down and out. Unhappily they were all partly
warded off. Coles merely seemed to stand aside and watch Rouse
interestedly as he strove to find an opening, and at last, when the
opportunity arose, he hit back at him with all his force and brought him
up short.
As Rouse came in again Coles took up the defensive rôle once more. He
had never shown better form. The cramped nature of the room prevented
any possibility of footwork. It was incumbent upon him to stand his
ground and fight, and this seldom suits a boxer who can use his feet,
but Coles suited himself to the circumstances with outstanding success.
His temper, which a few moments ago had been at fever heat, slowly
cooled off as he found himself gaining the upper hand. The thought that
a few moments hence he would have Rouse at his mercy acted as a sedative
upon him, and presently he smiled. Rouse noticed it and drew back for a
breather, collecting his energy the while for a greater and fiercer
onslaught yet. Next moment Coles’ left shot out and tilted back his
head. The pain of the blow was considerable, but in his present mood it
counted with Rouse as naught. He set his teeth, adopted a new pose and
prepared to dash in again. Before he had finally made up his mind,
however, which hand to hit with, that long left had come out again and
drawn a trickle of blood from his nose. He moved forward wrathfully and
suddenly let fly with his own left. Coles caught the blow neatly with
his elbow and slammed in a right swung. For a second or so it seemed to
Rouse that his neck had been broken. He was not at all sure where he
was. It came to him quite suddenly that he had fallen sideways and hit
his head against the wall, so he straightened himself with an almost
deprecating smile and put up his hands again.
Just as before Coles’ left shot out and tapped his nose. Rouse became
decidedly annoyed. He sprang in and swung up his fist towards Coles’
chin. To hit Coles on the chin was all he had come for, and he could see
no reason for delaying any longer. The blow never landed. Coles merely
tilted his head tauntingly out of reach and countered again with his
right. Rouse swayed giddily backwards and was brought up straight again
by a blow in the middle of the waistcoat. Then for a few short moments
he stood still, considering the situation in a puzzled manner whilst he
faced Coles with a badly bleeding countenance and glassy eyes. The worst
of a fight with bare fists is that it makes such a mess. He could feel
that his face was rapidly growing unsightly; he was aware that blood was
dripping down his chin and on to his collar. Unfortunately he could do
nothing to stop it.
He had had no fights since his early youth. Coles was hitting very
straight and cruelly hard. He seemed to be planting blows on the same
place over and over again too. Rouse could tell that from the pain of
their landing.
At last he found himself rocking groggily on his pins and he pulled
himself together sharply, and when next Coles came at him he struck out
lustily with either hand. One blow landed and he was delighted beyond
measure. The other was somehow lost in mid-air, and before he could
puzzle out what had happened Coles had hit him again with his straight
left and dazed his thinking powers.
Rouse’s eyes recovered their normal vision slowly, and he looked before
him. The walls seemed to be caving in, the chairs and the tables were
dancing before his eyes. Coles looked disproportionate and rather
horrible. He wondered if all this meant that he was going to be beaten.
He could not believe it. To be licked by Coles, particularly when it was
he himself who had started the fight, would be the last drop in his cup
of bitterness. He dimly conceived what he would feel like when the news
went round the school. What would Nick say when he crept back with a
disfigured countenance and a look of shame? These thoughts passed
through his mind at high speed but with peculiar clearness, and their
effect was immediate. He poised himself squarely upon his feet. Somehow
or other he had got to hit Coles on the chin, and if he could not do it
by attack then he would do it by countering with all his force each time
Coles himself came in. As he waited he furtively wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. His lips were very bruised. One of his teeth was
loose. He felt quietly angry and decidedly disappointed. But under no
circumstances whatever would he give in. He was not going to admit
defeat even if it were pointed out to him whilst he lay stiffly
outstretched upon the floor. In point of fact he found himself wondering
whether there would be room for him to lie stiffly on that particular
floor anyway. He very nearly smiled at that. Then with sudden resolution
Coles was moving forward. To Rouse he seemed strangely magnified. He
came with a watchful attitude, his eyes brightly ashine, his clenched
fists ready as if for a final blow. Rouse made preparation. With
alarming suddenness Coles was on top of him. His fists were striking out
with terrible intent. They were landing almost as they liked. Rouse
rocked this way and that. At last he caught a sudden glimpse of Coles’
face for once temptingly exposed, and he hit out on the spur of the
moment. His fist landed gloriously, and with delightful accuracy, upon
the chin, and he gave a sigh of content. Whatever else happened now he
had at least done what he had come for. He had hit Coles on the chin.
The blow gave him a second’s respite. He had evidently hurt Coles a good
deal. Yet in the end it availed him little. Before the faint smile of
satisfaction had died from his lips Coles was up against him again,
driving at his face with long arms that could not be properly avoided.
He fell forward, and finding himself leaning against Coles’ waistcoat,
struck at it cheerfully with each hand in turn, and heard Coles grunt
distressfully. He drew back to give himself more room. Coles was a
little unsteady upon his feet.
They could face each other now upon more level terms. Rouse watched him
closely, wondering what his next move would be. His own strength was
giving out and he had no intention of wasting it in fruitless attacks.
Then Coles began to spar for an opening. Rouse waited dubiously, not
knowing quite what this portended. He received a blow full in the mouth
with the utmost surprise, and found himself falling backwards against
the wall again. He strove to stand upright. Coles’ chin showed again for
one moment clearly exposed, and he struck at it with all the enthusiasm
which he still possessed, but the blow only half landed. Then he became
suddenly angry at the absurdity of fighting in the preposterous amount
of space afforded by Coles’ study. In his last tumble he had barked his
leg against a fallen chair. Unless his eyesight deceived him there was
not a picture in all the room that was hanging straight.
Blood had splashed across a part of the wall-paper.
But he remembered again that after all it had been he who had started
the fight. It was his own fault.
Coles was coming again. Rouse strove to stand steadily. His face was to
be the target again. He could see severe intention in Coles’ face. But
now resolve came to him anew. He would not be knocked out. He would
fight to the end. So long as he stood up he could not be considered
beaten. He looked for Coles with fiery eyes and smote at him. Coles was
grinning. As he smote that grin vanished suddenly, and he knew that he
had got home. He steadied himself and smote again. Again he landed
nicely. Then it was Coles’ turn. He struck cleanly, and once again Rouse
tumbled sideways. His hand went out and found the wall, and he steadied
himself like that for a moment, then turned and looked for Coles again.
He began to wish he had taken off his coat. He might have done better.
He was uncomfortably hot. There was a nasty taste in his mouth. His eyes
were closing. His head sang. He was giddy. Coles caught him in the face.
He rocked a little more. At last he began to slither foolishly down the
wall. Half-way he stopped, one hand propping him up. He tried to give
himself a shove off towards Coles, and floundered towards him hopefully.
Coles loomed up against him with fists like small hams feeling their way
towards his face again. One of them landed with a resounding smack. He
sank down on to the floor and stayed there for a moment. At last he got
up. Coles said nothing. He just got ready to hit again.
Rouse saw it coming. He would not be beaten. He struck out for himself
gamely, missed, and hit again. Coles got in the way of that last one and
received it on the chin, and Rouse tried to follow it up. He was half
afraid that if Coles hit him again he would succumb. He drew away from
the friendliness of the wall and tumbled against the table. They were
out in the only clear space in the room again at last, and, facing
Coles, he saw him preparing for a final blow; he put up his tired hands
doggedly, leaned forward and struck at the dim shadow that was Coles,
but the shadow slipped aside. Then he received a thudding blow in the
mouth, heard himself give an unwitting sob of despair, felt himself
falling. He was on the floor. He tried to get up. His limbs would not
answer his behests. He kicked out uselessly with one leg trying to find
support. At last he lay still.
When at length he came vaguely to his senses and looked round and about,
Coles was sitting on the table staring at him sullenly.
He noticed with interest that Coles was marked about the face rather
more heavily than he had supposed. Then he closed his eyes again. At
last he struggled up. He looked for Coles politely, found himself
standing with his back towards him, and turned.
His lips were swollen and difficult to control, so that he spoke with a
certain indistinctness.
“Well,” he said, “I’d misjudged things. You can box and I can’t. You
were too hot for me. If you don’t mind we’ll go on with this another
day. And between now and then I’ll learn to box too.”
Coles looked at him contemptuously.
“You’re too late,” said he. “There isn’t going to be any boxing. It’s
knocked on the head. That’s one of the thoughtful things you’ve done for
the school, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
Rouse turned and went out. The corridor was deserted and he was
grateful. He was not anxious to be seen coming out of Coles’ study like
that. He went unsteadily down the stairs and out into the open. The cold
wind cut at the broken skin bitterly, but now he held his head high and
went almost proudly across the open towards Morley’s. He was not of the
type that show their inner feelings to one and all. He knew that fellows
of all kinds and conditions in Harley would be looking to him for a lead
as to the correct behaviour at this final crisis, and he must set the
right example. It was possible that they might think his face had
suffered like that in the match, and in any case he was not going to
look ashamed about it. Even when Coles began to boast, and people came
to know that he had picked a quarrel with Coles and had got a hiding,
there were only a very few in the school who would not understand that
Coles could box and he couldn’t.
He came at last to his own study and went in. Toby had gone, but Terence
rose from a chair and moved towards him. He took one glance at Rouse and
turned away. There was a moment’s silence. Rouse went to the table and
sat down. He was trembling a little. His hands would not keep still. At
last he looked up.
Presently he made his confession.
“He put me down,” said he.
“Often?” asked Terence gently.
“Yes. Quite often.”
Terence nodded his head sympathetically. He saw that there was no need
for words.
At last Rouse leaned his elbows upon the table and buried his battered
face in his hands. There was nobody but Terence there to see, so what
did it matter? He was suddenly brave no more ... he was speaking his
inner feelings.
“This is the term that was to have been an unbeaten season, and it’s
come to pieces in our hands.” He waited. The room was very silent. “The
chaps haven’t got to look far to see what I’ve done for the school. I’ve
ruined the footer, and now because of me every game that a man can think
of has been stopped, and I’ve got Toby the sack—the finest fellow who
ever stepped. Last of all I’ve had a licking from the fellow who always
said that I wasn’t any good. What will the school say to that? Perhaps
now they’ll see through me. Perhaps they’ll turn to somebody else.
Supposing it’s Coles? I wonder whether it’s too late to get the Head to
do the right thing.... P’r’aps if I did something outside the pale he
might expel me—and keep Toby.”
Terence moved to him quickly.
“Listen,” he began. “Don’t talk like that. You’re forgetting. You
promised Toby you’d hang on. Every chap in the school’s looking to you
for a lead. And the side that wins this fight will be the side that can
stick it out. You’re not going to weaken—now. This is the crisis. Every
day we’re giving him more rope. Maybe he’ll hang himself if we only hang
on. But if we give in now he’s won.”
There was silence. Rouse did not look up.
“Toby’s going to-morrow, and he told me to tell you the Head will find
that the worst thing he ever did was to send him away. Toby’s not the
only old Harleyan. Some of the others have influence. Lots of them have
brothers here now—and sons. Sooner or later there’ll be a thundering
row. I’ve got an idea Toby’s going to get amongst them and that all this
will work out to the Head’s destruction. But we’ve got to stick it out.
You see that, don’t you? If you were to get expelled—we should have
lost. We’ve got to play a safe game till Toby gets to work.”
He stopped.
Rouse got slowly to his feet.
“Yes,” he said at last, “that’s right. We’ve got to stick it out.”