THE DAY OF RECKONING
It was the first afternoon of the Easter term, and from his position
beside the window of his study Rouse was staring steadfastly towards the
distant boundaries of Harley. Presently he turned and looked towards
Terence, who sat buried to the chin in a basket chair, with his feet
upon the mantelpiece.
“I find myself to-day,” said he, “in a mood of the most blissful
content. You, sir, can you tell me why that is?”
“No,” said Terence. “Unless somebody has mended that hole in your
trouser pocket for you during the holidays and your locker key doesn’t
fall through into your sock any longer. That used to irritate you a good
deal last term, I remember.”
“That is not the correct answer,” responded Rouse. “And you will,
moreover, be awarded one bad mark for your stupidity. If you are going
to have another shot, I think you had better stand half-way, with the
ladies and the little boys.”
Terence turned away and snuggled deeper into the recesses of his chair.
“It leaves me cold,” said he.
“Then I will speak with more warmth,” snapped Rouse, “you poor frozen
piece of fish. Let me tell you that you are what our American cousins
would term a boob or bone-head. If you were to unhook your heels from my
mantelpiece and come and balance yourself beside me for a minute, you
would perhaps understand what I mean. Just now the Grey Man passed along
the top road going towards Mainwright’s. When he had gone I found myself
casting my eye around the old estate, and I may assure you, young
Nicholson, the place did not seem the same.”
“You were looking at it from a different angle,” explained Terence.
“It’s that squint of yours. You never know _where_ you’re looking half
the time.” A brief silence followed. At last Rouse came over to the fire
and, standing beside Terence, placed his hands on his hips and began to
explain.
“The Grey Man has come back and the good sun is shining once more over
the old homeside. That’s what I mean, you flat,” said he. “When I look
back,” he added after a moment, “it seems to me that two things stand
out from amongst the events of last term. Passing over those bad times
when we heard that Toby was to go and that house footer was to stop, and
such good times as the Rainhurst match, the two things that I always
remember first are the moment when I first knew that I was not to be
captain of Rugger, and the moment when I realised that Coles was giving
me a licking.”
“It is of some interest to me to know,” said Terence, “that you are
actually able to think of two things at once. I was not previously aware
that you could.”
Rouse took no notice.
“The fact that I am responsible for the dud year Harley has had at
Rugger,” said he, “worried me a good deal until I had a chow-chow with
your brother, and then I began to look forward to this term as I have
never looked forward to any term before. Now I am really back again, and
the Grey Man has returned. I tell you, Nick, my son, I feel good. In
other words, I am chock full of beans.”
“That must be what I heard rattling about inside your head just now,”
answered Terence, “though it sounded to me more like dried peas.”
“The days which I have spent with Mr Carr have been some of the happiest
of my life,” insisted Rouse, “and they have done me such a power of good
that I am half inclined to catch you a severe clip on the head in
token.”
Terence rose and stretched himself.
“Mr Carr,” said he, “is a white man. What do you make the time? I’ve an
idea we ought to be getting down to the meeting.”
Rouse consulted his watch, moved to the window and looked out.
“Yes,” said he, “they’re beginning to show up. Foster and Pointon are
coming down the road and Smythe is just going by. Give me your hand and
we will tag along.”
As they left the house and started across towards the hall where the
general meeting was to be held Rouse became peculiarly quiet. Once
Terence turned to him and noted the brightness of his eyes, and Rouse
looked up and spoke.
“I wish I hadn’t talked so much about my blissful content,” he observed.
“I’m beginning to feel a bit different. It’s perfectly true that nobody
who knows Coles wants him to be captain of boxing, and it would be a
jolly good lesson to him if he missed it, particularly during a term
when we’re going all out to smash the record, but it isn’t everybody who
does know Coles.”
“Well?”
“And,” demanded Rouse, “why should they want _me_ anyhow? I’m not the
only fellow in the school who goes in for games. I had my innings last
term, and I played it about as cleverly as a fellow who goes into a
nursery to amuse a kid and promptly treads on his balloon. If anybody
_does_ mention my name at the meeting as a possible captain, the
probability is that chaps will get up one by one and go out groaning. I
should say that most of the fellows are sick to death of my name. That’s
how I feel about it anyway.”
“You feel like that about it,” said Terence gently, “because you’re
batty. It isn’t your fault. We must learn not to laugh at you for it.
You just can’t help it. You’re batty, that’s all.”
“Not at all. I was as keen as mustard to learn to box, especially from a
man like Mr Carr, but I’d just as soon box for the school like an
ordinary chap as be stuck on top and made captain.”
“They want you as captain,” said Terence, “because the whole school will
follow you and do whatever you say, and they want the whole school to go
boxing mad. It may interest you to know that I intend to don the gloves
and clout a few people myself in due course.”
Rouse shook his head.
“Everybody who’s spoken to me,” concluded Terence, “everybody who _is_
anybody——”
“Nobody’s anybody very much,” observed Rouse, “after they’ve once been
seen speaking to you.”
“Everybody who is anybody,” repeated the other indifferently, “has been
enthusiastic about it beyond all expectations. They reckon——”
He stopped. They had come to the entrance to the hall, and Rouse made
his way in and hurriedly deposited himself upon a convenient chair.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “Don’t stand up there staring. I don’t want
any attention called to me at all. I feel about the most congenital
idiot any human being could feel.”
Terence sat down.
“Are you quite sure you can see all right from there,” he inquired.
“Shall I ask that pretty gentleman in front to take his hat off?”
“That isn’t a hat,” said Rouse, casting dull care aside in the swiftly
changing manner that was his wont, “that’s the gentleman’s hair. He has
it like that because he’s in the wool-gathering business. It isn’t quite
the same colour as it used to be last term though, is it? There seems a
faint suspicion of early autumn about it. He’s been reading that
advertisement, ‘All handsome men are bronzed,’ I expect, and he thinks
it refers to the hair.”
The gentleman addressed turned haughtily and addressed himself to
Terence.
“Would you mind asking your little boy to be quiet,” he said
courteously. “I find his remarks a trifle distracting, and I’ve paid for
my seat the same as what you ’ave.”
“One of the curls is missing,” commented Rouse. “Is some lady the proud
possessor, or has his little brother been playing with the shears? It
gives the head a rather mothy appearance anyhow. Reminds me of a
part-worn doormat more than anything else.”
“Oh, rub his face in a bun,” retorted the gentleman with the golden
locks.
Rouse opened his mouth to reply but his final comment was cut short.
Toby Nicholson had risen and there had come a respectful hush. Then,
because it was his first official appearance on his return to Harley,
cheering broke out. He coloured awkwardly and stood for a minute waiting
the chance to speak, and eventually he began. He spoke just long enough
to explain the position to them, and to remind those who might not have
realised the fact that the school must certainly have suffered in
reputation by the leanness of the term just past.
“The way to win back our name as one of the first sporting schools in
England,” said Toby, “is not to attempt a late cut at a football season,
but to put the whole of our heart and soul into boxing and the sports.
For that reason you need a captain who can really lead the school into a
record year. Boxing has always counted for more at Harley than at many
other schools, and this term it must count as the only game worth while.
We want every fellow in the school who’s capable to try his hand at it.
Only so can we find the very best talent in the school.” He stopped.
“Who is proposed?” he said after a moment.
Without delay a peculiarly villainous-looking youth rose from his seat
and stood for a moment waiting.
Rouse nodded towards him.
“That lad has a nice open face,” he observed gravely.
“Open?” whispered Terence. “You wait till he laughs. It opens from ear
to ear.”
There came the muffled sound of a suffocated guffaw, and at the same
moment the terrible young man spoke.
“I propose Coles,” said he, “the senior old colour.”
“I second that,” declared another, rising swiftly from a corner seat.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then a totally different type of fellow
bobbed up from a position close to Rouse. It was Smythe, and he spoke
with vigour.
“Mainwright’s house have held a meeting to-day, and on their behalf I
wish to propose that Rouse be elected captain of boxing.”
He offered no explanation. He just waited a moment and then sat down.
Forthwith Saville rose from beside Coles.
“Seconded,” said he.
There was a sweeping murmur partly of surprise and partly of assent, and
then Toby looked round them quickly.
“Is anyone else proposed?”
It was evident that there was not. But the villainous young man who had
spoken first rose in his seat defiantly and faced Toby.
“It is quite natural, sir,” said he, “that after last year’s
disappointment some of the fellows should want to pay Rouse this
compliment, but it is an unwritten law that the captain of any game
shall always be the senior old colour of the game and, if possible, the
best man at it.”
Next Pointon rose.
“Is it not a fact, sir,” he inquired, “that when one selects a captain
one chooses a man with certain definite capabilities as a leader, and
not necessarily the best man at the game? Sometimes the two go together,
but this year we require above anything else the man who can get the
very most out of the school. Is there any unwritten law which prevents
Rouse being proposed in that capacity?”
Toby seemed about to answer, but there came instead a sharp surprise.
Coles himself was upon his feet, just as when he had once before been
frivolously nominated as captain of Rugger, and he was looking round
them brazenly, as if by making a bold show he could effectually hide the
fear that was in him. And this was the fear. Towards the end of last
term it had become common knowledge in Seymour’s not only that he was
sending a fag to get whisky for him from the town, but that, although he
had been the prime instigator in the affair that had brought Roe
expulsion, he had made no attempt whatever to help Roe or to alleviate
his heavy share of punishment. In point of fact, he had slunk off. The
school had begun to realise this and Coles knew it. The fear that it
might possibly prevent his unanimous election as captain had troubled
him during the holidays, but at such times he had found comfort in the
fact that he could not see any suitable rival who could be sent up
against him. He knew now the limit of their search for a man. The best
they could find was Rouse, a fellow whom he had thrashed in his study. A
scornful smile was playing about his lips. He began to speak.
“Look here,” he said, “I wanted to keep out of this.”
That was how one might have expected Coles to begin. They listened to
him listlessly. For a while he seemed to be idly chattering, as if
seeking to make clear his own great modesty, but at last he came to the
point. He was suggesting a fight. They listened now with pricked ears. A
look of surprised delight had flashed into Toby’s eyes. Rouse was
peering at Coles incredulously. But it was true. He was claiming the
rights of an old colour.
“Before a man who has never shown any interest in boxing treads on all
precedent and makes himself a dummy captain,” Coles had said, “other
fellows ought to be given a chance to see what he can do. Let Rouse come
into the ring. If he can beat me I shall be delighted to vote for him
myself.”
He was rambling on pleadingly in this strain when it was suddenly
noticed that Rouse too was upon his feet.
“I’m perfectly ready to fight you,” said he, “to-day.”
To the Grey Man Toby explained it in another light.
“It was what I had hoped might happen,” he said. “Because if we left it
to an election they would elect Rouse, and that would leave Coles with a
virtual grievance. But as it is, he himself has chosen this means of
ballot, and if he is beaten now he can have no cause for complaint at
all, and Harley will be the healthier for seeing a fellow whom they have
at last summed up thoroughly well outed.”
* * * * *
The school gymnasium was packed from end to end. Wherever one looked
boys of all shapes and sizes seemed to be piled one on top of the other
to the level of the roof. Whoever had not properly understood the truth
about Coles knew it now. The position was very clear indeed. All that
had been whispered about him in the last days of the Christmas term had
been true. The fellows in Seymour’s had admitted it. Coles had turned
spy. He had palled up to the school’s worst enemy. He had bullied his
fag. He had got whisky into the house and through him Roe had been
expelled. He had done no single thing for which the school did not, now
that they understood, condemn him with unutterable disgust. And Rouse
was standing up to him now to fight him and, if he could, to give him
the licking he so richly deserved, as a present from the school. Coles’
day of reckoning had come. Only one thing troubled them. No one could
say how Rouse could be expected to win. It was true that they had such
astounding confidence in his ability to do the seemingly impossible that
this did not worry them very much. After all, he had won the Rainhurst
match when it had seemed to be lost.
Yet even supposing he had spent his holidays learning to box so as to be
able to rescue them from the dread results of Coles becoming their
boxing captain, could he with a bare month’s practice really hope to
defeat the man who had boxed for the school at Aldershot?
Coles was first into the ring. He came with a lofty and contented air,
looking significantly round the crowded walls. Then he sat down and
Rouse came into sight. The bearing of those whose only part was to look
on was very proper. There was no hysterical cheering. Each man received
a courteous round of applause. Toby Nicholson came to the ropes and told
them briefly the object of the match. Once again clapping was the only
evidence of their approval. The moments passed.
At last it was time.
In a breathless silence the two rose to their feet. Justice had turned
to them now to hold the scales in a steady hand. They were meeting at
last on level terms. No study walls hemmed them in. Their quarrel was to
be fought at last fairly to a finish. Staring stolidly one at the other
they met, and their right hands touched for a moment in token that the
play was fair. Then they slipped suddenly into a ready stance and the
fight had begun.
Now Rouse began to realise that the things Johnny Winter had told him
must be true. That terrible nervousness that had been upon him for the
last two hours had passed. Doubt and mistrust in his power to do this
thing that the whole school were expecting of him had precipitately
vanished, as Johnny had declared they would when once he was in the
ring, and in their place had come, not overflowing confidence, but
detachment.
His mind grew concentrated upon the immediate future in a way that
entirely obliterated all that tensely watching crowd from the picture.
He was isolated from them. He could not see things from their point of
view at all. He only knew that he had been appointed by the school to
deal punishment to one whom they had condemned, and the task had so
tightened every sinew in his body that he was fretting to begin. It had
become impossible to conceive defeat. Coles had come to the end of his
innings and was faced with the reckoning of his score against the
school. And he had to reckon now not with a miserable novice but with
one who understood clearly how to use his fists. Rouse had learned no
tricks. He had not even acquired the art of easy movement in the ring,
but he knew how to stand and how to hit, and the straight left which was
almost the only blow that Johnny had allowed him to rely upon was ready
for its work. The moment that Coles’ hands were up Rouse slipped in.
Coles waited for him, just as he had waited when they had fought in a
study, ready to shoot in his counter the instant Rouse exposed himself.
But times had changed. Rouse showed him one quick threatening movement
with his right, and as Coles slipped to avoid the blow, there came at
him like a piston, very straight from the left shoulder, a closed glove,
hard and weighted like a loaded stick, and it thudded against his mouth
and jolted back his head.
He reeled with astonishment, and jumped in with a vengeful counter,
under a somewhat mistaken impression that the blow was a fluke. But he
was met by a sure and classic guard that kept out every blow he knew;
and the moment that he tired of trying and drew back to think things
over, that left came out again and helped him on his way. And suddenly
he understood. He had been trapped. His pride in the use of his fists
had led him into a mad challenge, and the truth was shining from Rouse’s
steely eyes. He read the message as many another bully has read it
sooner or later in a bragging career. This man had him cold. Somebody
had touched up the fellow’s dogged courage with a little science, and
Rouse was no longer asking to be knocked out. For Coles it was going to
be the fight of his life. He began to move nimbly about the ring, his
feet slipping noiselessly over the boards as he tempted Rouse this way
and that in the hopes of drawing him. But Rouse had been coached too
well. He understood perfectly what this meant. Coles had not fought him
this way before. His straight left had hurt Coles, and he was going to
keep away.
Rouse began to move steadily towards him. Coles danced eagerly across
his front, but footwork availed him little. Gradually Rouse’s left foot
began to work its way in, and at last, when it was against Coles’ toe
and he knew that a step would carry him within striking distance, he
darted in, and his left went out again and smashed against the other’s
face. There was a moment of grim excitement as Coles answered him with a
rain of violent drives and uppercuts that displayed his temper, but at
last it could be seen that Rouse was safely through the trial none the
worse for wear, and that Coles was flushed with heat. For a while he
drew back and waited, then as Rouse began to work in again with his
guard well up and his chin covered by the point of his shoulder, Coles
sprang up against him and bore him back. There was a brief grim tussle
for supremacy at close quarters, and then out of the fury of the rally
there gradually emerged the undoubted victor. Rouse had thrust his man
away by sheer strength and had drawn back for a heavy blow. As Coles
bored in again he struck out. The blow took Coles on the side of the
chin as he bounded forward, and he just staggered sideways and fell in a
heap.
For a moment he lay there. There was no applause. The silence was more
telling. He lay puzzling out what to do, and then at last he got up and
looked for Rouse with eyes that were ablaze with wrath. Rouse had waited
for a sign that he was ready, and now, as Coles put up his hands, he
walked in and began the real work that he had to do. So far he had
merely steadied his man. The last blow had been the signal that this
phase was over. The thrashing that he deserved was to come. Coles could
box and it was difficult to work him into a corner, but his fiery temper
was a decided help to Rouse, and at length he had Coles against the
ropes, standing with legs apart and both gloves held in a threatening
attitude of readiness. Rouse looked at him grimly and came in. For a
moment there was a whirl of fists. Then just as before the better man
emerged. A glove flashed up from his hip and almost lifted Coles off his
feet with the force of its landing. Coles tried to answer with his left,
but he was off his balance, and Rouse merely dodged back, then swung in
again with the whole weight of his body behind his glove. This time
Coles fell slowly, like a man struggling against unconsciousness, and at
last when he hit the boards he lay still.
Rouse drew back, watching him inscrutably. Still there was no applause.
Coles was not yet entirely done for. He had not yet been punished to the
full. He got up groggily and stood waiting. Rouse moved in and struck
him again. He rocked and tried to collect himself for a final effort.
For the crowd who stood watching it was a glorious moment. Once again
Rouse had achieved the seemingly impossible. Coles stood there swaying
in defeat and no man could rightly tell his thoughts, but at last, when
he saw Rouse moving to hit him again, he leant forward and struck out
with left and right as he came. One blow landed, but it failed to stop
Rouse, and he came on slowly, relentlessly. His glove swung from the
shoulder and landed against the other head with a thud. Coles began to
fall. He made one effort to hit back. As he righted himself he exposed
his chin, and Rouse let go a blow that carried every atom of his
strength. This time Coles just threw out his hands, and dropped in a
limp heap at his feet.
Rouse turned to his comer with a sigh of untold satisfaction. He had
only one fear, and that was that Coles might recover in time to come up
for another round. He wanted to have turned the tables on Coles with
real effect. Coles had beaten _him_ in one round.
For a moment he was in doubt. Then Toby finished counting and made a
quick sign with his hand.
Coles’ second came into the ring and picked him up.
Rouse had won. Still there was no applause. He looked once towards
Terence, but he gave no sign of real gladness. His feelings were part
and parcel of the feelings of the entire school. A traitor had met with
his deserts. There was nothing to clap about.
And then quite suddenly he realised his mistake. They had merely been
waiting for Coles to be carried away. Now they had turned to him, and
thunder began to roll from every side towards him. It grew and grew
until the windows were rattling in their frames and the rafters of the
gym. were trembling with concussion. Louder and louder it swelled.
Wherever he looked hands were beating the air. He tried to make his way
to the dressing-room. He was seized by strong arms and hoisted up. He
tried to quell them. It was no good. The pent-up excitement of the last
term’s end was too much for their control. Yesterday’s captain had
become to-day’s. What could they do but cheer?
* * * * *
Across the playing fields there came a little man clad in a sombre suit
and wearing upon his head a soft felt hat of great respectability. As he
came he looked from side to side as if in doubt as to which road he
ought to take, and so when he came within sight of the school gymnasium
he stopped. Next moment a noise like the crashing to earth of some
gigantic edifice shattered his very ear-drums, and he stood swaying for
a moment, shaken from head to foot. At last he turned towards the
building from which that vast explosion had appeared to come, and as his
senses gradually reassumed their balance he realised that the thunderous
echo of it was continuing. He began to walk on, his head turned in
astonishment as he went, and as the noise grew and grew he stopped
again, his blue eyes wide with wonder.
Then from the doorway of the gym. there came a stream of running
youngsters, who turned in the open and waited for those behind to form a
vast half-circle. Next he saw Toby Nicholson thrust out into the open by
the weight of the mob behind him, and at last there came a kaleidoscopic
mass of humanity tumbling out from the doors in a tidal wave, bearing
upon its crest the boy that he had taught to box.
Then he began to understand, and so he slowly smiled.
He was still smiling like this when Toby disengaged himself and, seeing
him, came across to shake his hand with extraordinary vigour.
“I have come as I promised,” said the little man, “because I have found
the very man you want, and he is ready to start as your coach to-morrow
if your Headmaster is agreeable. I thought I would come down and see him
myself.”
“The Headmaster wants to meet you,” said Toby. “And you couldn’t have
come at a better time. Your man has won.”
He turned to look for a moment quizzically upon the seething mob, and
suddenly moved forward and beckoned to a tall thin boy who had detached
himself from the crowd and seemed to be looking for his cap. This he
recovered at last and came towards them.
“Hope,” said Toby, “I want to introduce you to this gentleman. He is
Carr’s father and he taught Rouse to box.”
Henry looked at the little man over the tops of his glasses, the excited
flush still evident upon his cheek and his breath still laboured. Then
he solemnly raised his cap and held out his hand.
“I am very proud to know you, sir,” said he. “Your son has come back to
Morley’s now and we are firm friends.” He suddenly turned his head. The
scene was growing into one of indescribable commotion. He looked once
longingly, then turned to Toby as if in pleading. “If you would just
excuse me a minute, sir,” said he, “I really _must_ go and cheer a bit.”
He went off with a sudden raking stride, shouting wild cat calls through
cupped hands, and the little man turned to Toby.
“It would be better for you to tell them who I am, Mr Nicholson, than to
let them be deceived,” said he. “You see—that boy raised his hat to me.”
Toby nodded his head.
“Yes,” said he, “of course. Any boy here always raises his hat to
another boy’s father.”
The little man did not entirely understand.
“But,” he began, “a professional boxer——”
Toby stopped him.
“You taught Rouse to box,” he said, “and he knocked Coles out. I can’t
explain any more. The fellows at this school will always raise their
hats to you.”
“It makes me feel almost as if I were a—gentleman,” said Johnny simply.
Toby looked at him with a fond smile.
“Come to the Head,” said he, “and be introduced. You’ll understand
better after you’ve seen him.”
* * * * *
Rouse sat in his bath.
The comfort of hot water wrapping him round was bringing to him a
wonderful sense of restfulness and repose. The shouting had died away at
last and he was alone. Somewhere he understood that the school were
forming into a queue that stretched twice across the playing fields,
waiting to give in their names as desirous of taking up boxing during
the coming term. He looked ahead and he could see no single cloud upon
the far horizon. The year was shaping its course for breaking record. He
was amazingly content, and when at last there came a knock upon the door
he turned in surprise and waited a moment before he said in guarded
tones:
“Who’s that?”
“I’ve brought you a couple of _hot towels_,” was the answer. “I thought
you’d like them.”
For a moment Rouse lay still, utterly and finally at peace with all the
world. At last he replied.
“Terence, my boy,” said he, “you are not, all things considered, at all
a bad old stick. One of these days I am inclined to think that I shall
very probably learn to like you.”
It was, as we know, only in moments of the deepest emotion that Rouse
ever called Terence by his proper name.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s note:
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. P. 153, changed "short interfere" to "short to interfere".