THE NEW BOY
Alpha and Omega are the most widely known letters of the Greek alphabet.
And the first and last weeks of a public school career have inspired
more essays and sermons than the other two hundred and fifty weeks put
together. Yet in neither the beginning nor the end is to be found the
essence of school life. The last week is a period of agreeable
sentiment. The first of embarrassed loneliness. The new boy feels that
he has no part in the life of the school. On that first afternoon, when
he has said good-bye to his parents, and turns to walk away from the
station, the school buildings, chapel, studies, cloisters, assume in the
mellow September sunlight the prospect of a distant city that one day he
may be privileged to enter. At present he is outside it, as he stands at
the edge of the courts, forlorn in his black tie and wide brimmed straw
hat, while the stream of boys in bowler hats and gaily coloured ties
pours up from the station. On all sides he hears shouts of welcome,
snatches of eager conversation. No one takes the least notice of him. He
is an unrecognised foreigner.
During supper, he sits silent and nervous among the new boys at the
day-room table. From time to time he casts hesitating glances at the
raised table where the prefects sit. What giants they seem. He wonders
which is Featherstone, the head of the House?[1] Is that imposing figure
with the black hair brushed back from his forehead, the G. O. Evans, who
made 121 in the Public School's match at Lords? Can it be possible that
he and they are members of the same society?
A prefect rises from the high table and leaves the hall. Immediately
forms are pushed back and the long narrow passage leading to the
dormitories is filled with sound. The new boy is taken with the stream.
What will happen to him now, he wonders? He has always understood that
most of the ragging takes place in the dormitories. Will all new boys be
subjected to some common lot? In a way he almost hopes that they will.
He may thus be given an opportunity of showing his courage. He will be
marked down at once as 'a bit of a sport.'
But nothing happens. He walks timidly into the large airy room with its
bare boards, its row of wash-hand stands and red-quilted beds. He sees
his bag lying in the middle of the floor. Three hours earlier when he
and his parents had been shown round by the house-master's wife, he had
placed his bag on the corner bed. It had seemed to him a good idea to
reserve that particular bed. He would then be open to attack only on
one side. Memories of Horatius Cocles had stirred his imagination. But
some one else is already undressing there. He picks up his bag, and is
about to place it on the bed nearest him when a warning voice informs
him that Jones has bagged that bed. He looks round him in dismay. There
are only two vacant beds. 'May I have that one?' he asks. The boy with
the warning voice looks surprised at being questioned. 'I should think
so,' he says, 'unless Hughes wants it. He had it last term.' The new boy
does not know whether or not he dare begin to undress beside the bed
that Hughes may possibly commandeer. He stands irresolute; then decides
to take the risk. There is nothing to choose between the two positions,
and Hughes would probably prefer a change.
He begins slowly to undress. No one takes the least notice of him. No
one evinces the slightest inclination to test the courage of the new
man. No hardened bully enters with a blanket. It is possible that two
blasé young gentlemen from another dormitory will stroll in 'just to
have a look at the new men,' will make a cursory examination, and having
expressed their disgust at 'such an appalling crew,' will seek better
fortune elsewhere. That will be all. The inquisition of preparatory
school terrors is a myth. This generation is not more timid than its
predecessors, but it is more subtle. The boy who has just ceased to be
labelled 'new' wishes to impress his importance on the new boy. Forty
years ago he achieved this object by putting the new boy on a chair and
throwing boots at him. The appeal to physical force was not, however,
invariably successful. Sometimes the small boy retaliated, and there is
no reason why a boy of thirteen should not be a match for one of
fourteen. At any rate the 'year older' has accepted the twentieth
century doctrine that the easiest way to impress a person is to ignore
him. And so the boy of a year's standing assumes an air of Olympian
superiority. The new man is beneath his notice. He prefers to lean in
the doorway of the dormitory, and talk of the days when 'Meredith had
that far bed, and Johnstone had the wash-hand stand beneath the window.'
He will casually let fall the names of the mighty and note their effect
on the young. In the daytime he is probably quite an insignificant
person, low in form and a funk at football. He can only appear great in
the presence of his juniors during the quarter of an hour between supper
and lights out. He therefore takes enormous pains to secure the
admiration of those whom he affects to despise.
It is the same everywhere. At Sandhurst, on the first night of each
term, the seniors used to cluster round the piano and sing till 'rooms'
with incredible violence and discord. It was done entirely to impress
the juniors, and on the whole I am inclined to think it was successful.
The junior is a shy person, and the din has on him an effect not unlike
that of an intensive bombardment. As the junior sits in a far corner of
the anteroom, cowed and unhappy by an exhibition that is being
conducted, though he does not know it, entirely for his benefit, so does
the new boy lie back in bed on his first night, wondering what it is all
about.
The jargon puzzles him; the attitude to life puzzles him. The boy with
the warning voice is lamenting that he has got his 'budge.'
'Rotten luck,' he says. 'I should like to have stopped in old Moke's for
at least a year. I did just well enough in each paper to avoid being
bottled. Fourteenth I came out, and now they've started a new form, so
we've all got shoved up.' The rest of the dormitory express sympathy.
Then some one wonders whether Davenport will turn 'pi' now he's a 'pre';
the opinion is expressed that Ferguson will find himself pretty lonely
now that Wodehouse has left. A lot of people have apparently been
waiting a long time to kick him with impunity. Some one says, 'Let's
make up the Fifteen,' and the rival claims of Bradshaw and Murray are
carefully weighed. And all the while four wretched new boys listen in
silent, confused wonderment.
The conversation gradually becomes spasmodic. There are longer and
longer pauses between the conclusion of one topic and the introduction
of another. 'Well,' says the senior boy, 'about time we were going to
sleep. Good-night all.' There is a murmur of 'good-night': silence: and
then again the warning voice. 'Oh, but I say, Stewart, what about the
new men's concert?' There is immediate interest among the senior
members. Of course, they had forgotten that ... the new men's concert.
'Too late now,' says Stewart. 'Let's have it on Sunday.'
'Hear that, you new fellows; you must all have a song by Sunday.
Good-night.'
But there is little sleep for the new boy. Where is he? What has
happened to him? Such a little while ago he was secure, garrisoned,
sheltered by his home. Only twelve hours. He begins to wish that he had
not been so anxious to leave his prep. Why hadn't he stayed on there
another year? He would have been head of the school. At this very moment
if he had not been so absurdly impetuous he would be turning over to go
to sleep, having wished his dormitory 'good-night.' Just as Stewart had
done. The thought of the concert terrifies him. He is a bad singer. Will
they make him stand on a chair? will they throw boots at him if his
voice quavers, or if he forgets the words? It will be a long-drawn
agony.
And for a couple of days he is made wretched by the prospect of this
ordeal. It allows him no peace of mind. In form, on the football field,
as he walks up to the tuck shop, the disquieting thought descends to
torture him. But in the end it is a very tame affair. It takes place
after lights out, and new boys, as well as lovers, win a strange courage
of the darkness. Moreover, the object of the concert is to amuse the
senior members of the dormitory, and bad singing amuses no one. Myself,
I remember being stopped before I had completed one verse of 'The
British Grenadiers,' whereas the boy next to me, who had an agreeable
treble voice was made to sing, 'Put on your ta-ta, little girlie,' every
other night for the rest of the term.
The concert is practically the sole direct ordeal that a new boy has to
face: yet it is probable that he would, on the whole, prefer the
old-fashioned methods. It is better to be ragged than to be ignored. And
he spends most of his first week wondering whether he has done the right
thing. It is especially difficult if he finds himself placed high in the
school. The lower forms are mainly composed of new boys, companions in
calamity, and the master in charge of the second is lenient during the
early days. It is different for the boy who finds himself in the Lower
Fifth, or Upper Fourth. As likely as not there is only one other new boy
in his house in the same form, and, when he cannot find that particular
boy, there is no one to whom he may turn for advice. He soon learns that
it is not wise to carry his troubles to his seniors. He may find himself
in his house-master's study, waiting to hand in the list of books he
will require, and suddenly he remembers that he has forgotten to put
down his Latin prose book on the list; he has also forgotten what Latin
prose book his form uses. He casts a despairing eye round the room and
recognises, leaning against a bookcase the languid, supercilious figure
of Watney. What luck, he thinks, Watney has been in the Upper Fourth
two years. He is sure to know. The new boy edges towards him. 'Please,'
he asks, 'what Latin prose book do we use?'
His query is met by a look of amazed, outraged disapproval. Watney looks
him up and down. Then at last: 'Who are "we"?' he says. The experiment
is not repeated. The new boy arrives in form without his Latin prose
book and is threatened with an imposition.
The geography of the school is very puzzling.
No new boy could be expected to gather much help from the information
that his class-room is 'under the library, up on the right, next to
Uncle Ned's.' For at least a week he is always entering the wrong form
room. In the lower forms it is customary for the master to glance round
the class, see that five boys are missing, and send the senior member in
search of them as a matter of course. Indeed the first week of term is
very pleasant for the senior member of the lower forms. He spends most
of his time searching for lost lambs, and he is in no frantic haste to
complete his task. But that is in the lower form, and, in the middle and
upper schools, form masters do not care to have their time wasted. The
absence of Jones mi. is not regarded as a joke.
Nicknames are confusing.
The new boy does not realise that 'Crusoe' and Mr Robinson are the same
person. And, when he finds himself a quarter of an hour late in Mr
Robinson's class-room, his excuse that he thought he had to go to 'Mr
Crusoe' is not an official success. He is always on the brink of a
mistake.
Probably his life is further complicated by the fact that he is playing
Rugby football for the first time, and, for at least a month, his
performances on the field can give him little satisfaction and less
amusement. In the course of two or three puntabouts he is taught by his
house-captain how to pack and how to take a pass. He is then drafted on
to pick ups and house-games to fare as best he may. He fares extremely
badly. He hangs about on the edge of the scrum. He catches hold of his
opponents when they are dribbling and attempts an Association barge when
they are running. For a long time he never touches the ball with his
hands at all, and on the rare occasions when he discovers it at his
feet, he takes a terrific rout at it and is contemptuously informed that
he is not playing soccer. He is playing with boys older and heavier than
himself. He has little chance of acquiring self-confidence: no
footballer is really any use till he has scored a try, and that day is
slow in coming. The new boy's chief anxiety on the field is to avoid the
notice of any house caps that may be on the touchline. At half-time he
will rub worm-casts on his knees to present an appearance of muddy
valour. He is terribly afraid he will be reported and beaten for
slacking. This fate rarely, as a matter of fact, overtakes a small boy.
A beating for slackness is usually reserved for the boy about half-way
up the house who has committed no definite offence, but has been making
a nuisance of himself generally.[2] Slackness on the field is the excuse
for an official reprimand, and its effect is usually salutary. This,
however, the new boy does not know. Games, when the house-captain is on
the touchline, become a misery. During his first term he looks forward
to the First Fifteen matches chiefly because on those days he will not
himself have to play.
But it is in his spare time that he most acutely feels himself outside
the general life of the school. He is oppressed by liberty. He does not
know what to do with it. At his Preparatory School an elaborate
time-table was posted on the notice-board, and every moment of his day
was pigeonholed. A boy had no excuse for not knowing at any given time
what he ought to be doing, and where he ought to be doing it. There was
constant supervision. But, at a Public School, provided a boy answers
his name at roll-call, and fulfils his social engagements in the form
room and on the football field, no one worries much what he is doing
during the rest of the time. He can search for plovers' eggs, or hunt
for fossils, or develop photographs, or overeat at the tuck shop. He is
his own master, and this the new boy cannot understand. When he has
changed after football on a half-holiday he asks himself: 'What ought I
to be doing now?' The answer is, of course: 'Nothing in particular.
Whatever you like.' A disconcerting answer, for there is nothing in
particular that he wants to do. The day room is inhospitable. The big
chairs round the fire are occupied by the mighty. The library is only of
less interest to him than the museum. The tuck shop at such an hour is
full of bloods in whose presence he feels embarrassed. He wanders
disconsolately round the courts. All the other new boys seem to have
found something to do (a common delusion this). In the end he succeeds
in finding some one equally lonely with whom he goes for a walk: and a
walk, unless one is a botanist, is such a strange way of spending an
afternoon, that I have since wondered whether any one after his first
term ever goes for a walk at school without an ulterior motive, except
when he is in training.
It is a strange business that first term, and its importance is, I
think, overrated. It is not public school life. It is composed of the
hesitations, the reactions of a novice. School life is on the other side
of it. The new boy sees that life in fragments. It puzzles him. He tries
to fit it into shape with the scale of values he acquired at his
Preparatory School. And fails. The Preparatory School belongs to
childhood, the Public School to adolescence. The new boy understands
little of what is going on round him. Indeed there is no person whose
testimony can be less relied upon than that of the new boy of four
weeks' standing. He never knows what he should, and what he should not,
believe. The new life is so strange to him that he is prepared to accept
any absurdity for the truth. The veriest nincompoop can pull his leg.
The following story is true.
It was the custom in my house for the matron to put out clean
underclothes for each boy on Saturday evening. On my first Saturday I
noticed that no clean pants had been put out for me. I asked an elder
boy why this was. 'Oh, don't you know?' he said, 'we only have clean
pants twice a term.' I believed him. The matron thought that I, in
common with many others, did not start wearing pants till well into the
winter. In consequence I wore the same pair till the second week in
November. It is the same with regard to the more serious issues of
school life. Mischief is often caused by the mistaken ideas that new
boys give their parents of what does and what does not go on in their
house.
I was provided the other day with a good example. At a certain house in
a famous school it was the practice of the house-master's wife to sit at
the day-room table for lunch. The idea was admirable. The house-master's
wife was a sympathetic woman who wished to recall to the small boys the
regenerating atmosphere of their homes. The results, however, were
unfortunate. The small boys became communicative. In their innocence
they repeated stories of which the true significance had escaped them.
In their ignorance they misinterpreted stories of which the nature
happened to be direct. In neither case did the reputation of certain
light-hearted sportsmen on the Va. table rise in the official esteem.
Indeed of that particular house there was composed a limerick, the exact
wording of which has more humour than propriety, to the effect that the
house reports of the Sixth Form table were written by the fags. Few
parents, however, would accept this explanation.
Officially the first term is usually an unqualified success. The new boy
is not distracted from his studies by the stress of house politics nor
by the ambitions of the football field. The weekly form order is his
chief excitement. And it would be surprising, considering the qualified
enthusiasm with which the majority of the form welcome this occurrence,
if the new boy did not soon find himself in the running for promotion.
There is, indeed, little else for him to do.[3] He lives in a world of
his own. He sees a good deal of new boys in other houses, and the usual
question in break on Saturday morning is: 'Where were you this week?'
His offences against discipline are inconsiderable. It is 'side' for a
new boy to rag in the day room, in the changing room, and in the
dormitories. That is the privilege of his seniors. He is not hardened
enough to rag in form. He still regards work as important. I remember
once seeing a very small and inoffensive scholar crumple up a sheet of
paper and fling it at the head of his chemistry master. He maintained,
however, that he was aiming at the waste-paper basket, and, though the
excuse was not accepted, the offender's subsequent performances on the
cricket field have inclined me to think he spoke the truth. At any rate
this is the sole piece of audacity on the part of a new boy that I have
witnessed. Indeed the new boy who does not return home with a thundering
good report is a well-placed candidate for expulsion. Most of us start
well. How many public school boys would have to confess that they won
their only prize in their first term. The new boy returns home as from a
Roman triumph. The indulgent father is prodigal of largess and
theatre-tickets. His secretary is instructed to type out the report and
send copies of it to aunts and uncles and his former head master. It is
a great occasion, and we do well to make the most of it. It does not
come twice.
The change begins, I suppose, on the first evening of the second term,
when the novice, clad appropriately in bowler hat and coloured tie, is
accosted by a member of the form into which he has been promoted and
informed that he will be expected to do the 'con' for them that term.
There is no threat. It is merely the announcement of an arrangement for
mutual help. The old stagers who have slowly moved up the school, with
the danger of superannuation camping on their trail, consider that their
last terms should pass in a soft tranquility. They expect the newcomer
to provide them with that peace. 'Here,' they say, 'is a smart lad who
has got his promotion straight away; he can be of great service to us.'
It is a form of practical communism of which the scholar is particularly
the victim. There is a general conscription of intellect. Scholars are
expected to do the work of the bloods. 'You are paid to come here,' say
the great men, 'you must prove yourselves worthy of your hire.' Arnold
Lunn has described how the captain of his house used to hold an
educational raffle. Slips of paper on which were written: 'Greek Prose';
'Latin Prose'; 'Essay,' were placed in a hat and the scholars took their
chance of drawing a blank. I can still hear the voice of the school
fast-bowler shouting over the banisters to a wretched goggle-eyed youth,
'No. 69, Becke, and shove it in my study before prayers.'
But the scholar is an exceptional person, and the novice who is accosted
in the courts has an easier fate. He does not have to do other people's
work. He merely has to do his own out loud. He is, moreover, a
privileged person. He does not have to look the words up in a
dictionary. That is the task of another member of the combination. He is
spared the hack work of translation. It is for him to discover the
sense. At a first glance it would seem that this arrangement would be to
the advantage of the new boy; certainly it will ensure his industry.
There is no chance of his scamping his work. The fate of others depends
on his efficiency, and it does not pay him to guess at the sense. I
remember once translating _Remotis arbielis, surrexit e lectulo_,
'having kicked off his bedclothes he rose from his bed.' No one
questioned the interpretation, so I proceeded to the next sentence. None
of us luckily was put on to translate that passage, but I can recall now
the icy looks of the other members of the combination when the sentence
was correctly rendered. I made a bolt for it afterwards, but they caught
me. I did not guess again.
The form interpreter is never able to say to himself: 'I went on to con
yesterday, and I went on the day before, there's not the least
likelihood of my being put on to-day. I shan't prepare it.' He has to
labour for the general good, and probably, by the end of the term, he
knows the Latin and Greek books pretty well. But he has not only learnt
the correct rendering of certain obscure classical passages; he has
learnt also, through contact with older boys, the correct public school
attitude to work and the relative importance of football and
mathematics.
This is what he learns.
It is the business of the school to win their matches and to produce
first-class footballers and cricketers; it is the business of the house
to win their house matches and to produce as many colours as possible.
It is the business of every individual member of the school to subscribe
to this creed. The value of scholastic achievements is relative. It is a
feather in the cap of a double first to be privileged to wear the dark
blue ribbon of the Sixth. But it is not a necessary achievement.
Scholars, on the other hand, should work. They are no use to the school
at games. It is for them to do what little lies within their power; a
scholarship has its value. The school likes to get scholarships. It is a
side show, of course, but a creditable side show. And the Fourth Former,
after recounting the feats of Lewis in the big school match, comments on
the fact that Bevan won a Balliol scholarship in the same way that the
village greengrocer will say: 'Oh, yes, sir, we have a drapery
department, too.' Real brains are accorded a sort of grudging
admiration. They are entitled to respect. A Fellow has done his job
well. It may not be an important job, but he has done it. Our Fourth
Former remembers the parable of the talents. The Balliol scholar has
converted his one talent into two.
The boy, however, who, without being a scholar, shows unusual signs of
industry, is a swot. Valuable time is wasted. The school is divided into
two parts: the scholars and the rest. The rest brings to its work
whatever energy is saved from its more arduous activities. No one thinks
any the less of a man for being low in form. Slackness on the football
field is anti-social. In the long category of an unpopular boy's offence
the final evidence of worthlessness is the statement: 'He doesn't even
work.' Even that resort, 'that last infirmity,' is denied him. What
purpose has his existence? These are the articles of faith; these are
the conventions. And the new boy who is ambitious, who wishes to win
the respect and admiration of his comrades realises that athletic
prowess will win him a position that is beyond the reach of the
liveliest intellect. He begins to look on his work as a side show. It
does not particularly matter what happens to him in the class-room. It
would be nice to reach the Sixth. There are agreeable privileges. But it
is not of first importance.
No sooner has he decided this, than he discovers that his form work is
intolerably dull. Of course he does. He brings no enthusiasm to it. The
masters who can inspire the indifferent are rare. And the mind wanders
from the inky desks, the hunched row of shoulders, and the far voice of
a master droning monotonously, to the swimming bath and the cricket
field. Will Butler get the cricket cup? Did Frobisher get his firsts
because he was worth them, or because he was in the Captain's house?
These topics offer inviting prospects; speculation follows speculation
till suddenly the tired voice breaks into the day-dream: 'Will you
continue now, please, Dunkin?' There is a scuffle as Dunkin collects his
books and thoughts. There is a whisper of: 'Where's the place?' 'What
does _crates favorum_ mean?' And the delinquent begins to stumble
through his lines in a fashion that may, or may not, result in an
imposition. To the unresponsive the atmosphere is one of intolerable
listlessness.
He makes another discovery, namely, that during his first term he did
far more work than was strictly necessary. That he should discover the
idiosyncracies of certain masters was a matter of course. Sooner or
later he would have been bound to learn that in Old Mouldy's he could
pin the repetition on to the back of the boy in front of him, that the
Moke's mathematical class provided him with an admirable opportunity for
writing the imposition that his house-master had given him the evening
before. A good batsman soon sizes up the opposing fieldsmen; he knows
whether he can risk a single to cover, or whether there is one for a
throw when the ball goes slowly to third man. That is part of the game.
The new boy makes more important discoveries than that. He comes to
understand the intricacies of the set system by which the middle and
upper schools learn French, German, Science, and Mathematics.
For the days have passed when a boy learnt only Latin and Greek and a
little French grammar. A liberal education is supposed to give him a
general idea of a wide number of subjects. A choice of subjects is
allowed, and it is hard to arrange a fair system of marking that will
bring the boy who does German into line with the boy who does Greek.
Each school tackles the situation in a different way, but each system
probably leaves a loophole for the idle. It could hardly be otherwise,
and it is enough to describe one system and the tactics that are adopted
to cope with it.
This particular system works as follows: It is accepted that the only
universal subjects, that is, the only subjects that are studied by the
whole form under the same master, are Latin and English, and, under
English, are to be included History, Literature, Geography, and
Divinity. On the marks earned in these subjects the form order and
promotion depends. All other subjects, Greek, German, French, Science,
and Mathematics are treated independently of the form order and are
taught in sets of varying standards. It would seem to be a very sound
scheme. A boy, for instance, may be a bad historian and a poor classic,
but a fine mathematician. If all subjects were included in the same
order he would be kept back by his bad English and Latin and would have
to do algebra that he had long outgrown, yet at the same time his
mathematical ability would place him in a form where the English and
classics would be too difficult for him. Under the set system it is
possible for the boy to reach the highest set in the school at
mathematics and yet remain in the Shell or Lower Fourth.
During his first term the new boy worked with equal industry at form and
set subjects. During his second term he realises that he is wasting his
energy. Proficiency in Greek will not help him to secure his promotion
into the Lower Fifth; whereas, if he takes things easily at Greek, he
will be able to spend more time on History and Latin. Indeed, it might
be said that the wily one 'makes a book' in form and set subjects. He
appreciates the need of reserve strength. He ought always to have a
little in hand. He casts his eye down his time-table. There is no
reason why he should not spare himself during the hour in the
laboratory. The time might be so much more profitably devoted to his
Latin 'con'; and at the time, of course, he will not consider the
possibility of allowing such an arrangement to divert in any way his
classical activities in 'prep' on the previous night. Far from it. He
will have an opportunity to revise. He again studies his time-table.
French with 'Bogus.' A little relaxation there is possible. Greek with
'Crusoe,' however, presents difficulties. Crusoe is something of a
martinet; he expects lessons to be prepared, and he has a way of
remembering what impositions he has set. He will have to work hard for
Crusoe. Indeed it would be as well if he tried an honest, or the
equivalent for an honest term's work for Crusoe. Is not the next set
conducted by the Moke on admirably communal grounds. In the Moke's every
one helps every one. There is no haste, no envy, no striving for
position. A few scholars hurry through on their way to Balliol
scholarships. They do not matter. They are only ripples on the surface
of that calm, deep pool.
Sometimes 'the book is made' the other way. A member of the school
eleven has at last reached the Lower Fifth, and is content for a term or
two to rest upon his achievements. He decides to do just enough work to
avoid being bottled. He realises, however, that it will be as well for
his father's peace of mind if a few single figures appear after his name
in the report. And so he devotes himself to Chemistry and French. Two
subjects appear on the time-table for each evening's preparation. And it
is a bad day when it is impossible to dismiss at least one of them in a
quarter of an hour.
Examinations present difficulties. And it is here that the new boy, at
the end of the summer term, makes his first serious compromise with the
rigid code of ethics that he has brought with him from his Preparatory
School. Why should he not crib in set subjects. They are unimportant.
Promotion does not depend on them. He is not taking an unfair advantage
of any one else. He will only do just well enough to avoid having to do
the paper again. Why should he have to spend hours sweating up a useless
subject. It is absurd. Besides, cribbing is rather an exciting game. It
is a daring feat to smuggle the principal parts of the irregular verb,
into a waistcoat pocket. It needs courage to open a French dictionary
beneath the desk. He will be able to talk about it afterwards, and
fellows will say he is a sport. It is the first step, and afterwards the
compromise becomes increasingly easy.
He returns home at the end of his first year fortified with a deal of
worldly wisdom. He looks forward to the next year hopefully. He knows
where he is now. He has learnt the tricks of the trade. It is all going
to be splendid fun.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] I have used throughout this book the idiom of my own school. The
Head of a house or of the school is the head boy in work. The
Captainship of a house or of the school is a term applicable only to
athletic prominence.
[2] I am speaking of the average house. There are frequent occasions, of
course, in bad houses where this privilege of the house-captain is
abused.
[3] It has even been known for a new boy to work in his spare time.