IO SATURNALIA!
I
Presently my turn came.
A small, spectacled, and entirely inarticulate gentleman in a very long
gown, after a last glance to assure himself that my coat was
sufficiently funereal and my trousers not turned up, took my hand in
his; and we advanced mincingly, after the manner of partners in a
country dance, over the tesselated pavement of the Senate House until we
halted before the resplendent figure of the Vice-Chancellor.
Here my little companion delivered himself of a hurried and perfunctory
harangue, in a language which I took to be Latin, but may for all I know
have been Esperanto. The Vice-Chancellor muttered a response which I
could not catch; impelled by an unseen power, I knelt before him and
placed my two hands between his: an indistinct benediction fell from his
lips, gently tickling my overheated scalp; and lo! the deed was done. I
rose to my feet a Master of Arts of Cambridge University, at the
trifling outlay of some twenty pounds odd.
Thereafter, by means of what the drill-book calls a "right-incline," I
slunk unobtrusively past two sardonic-looking gentlemen in white bands,
and escaped through the open north door into the cool solitude of Senate
House Passage, and ultimately into Trinity Street.
I walked straight into the arms of my friend The Freak--The Freak in cap
and gown, twenty-two years of age, and in his last year at the
University.
"Hallo, Tiny!" was his joyous greeting. "This is topping!"
"Hallo, Freak!" I replied, shaking hands. "You got my wire, then?"
"Yes, what are you up for? I presume it is a case of one more shot at
the General Examination for the B.A. Degree--what?"
I explained coldly that I had been receiving the Degree of Master of
Arts.
"As a senior member of the University," I added severely, "I believe it
is my duty to report you to the Proctors for smoking while in academic
dress."
Freak's repartee was to offer me a cigarette.
"Let us take a walk down Trinity Street," he continued. "I have to go
and see The Tut."
"Who?"
"My Tutor. Don't get fossilised all at once, old thing!"
I apologised.
"What are you going to see him about?" I enquired. "Been sent down?"
"No. I am going to get leave to hold a dinner-party consisting of more
than four persons," replied my friend, quoting pedantically from the
College Statute which seeks (vainly) to regulate the convivial
tendencies of the undergraduate.
"Ah," I remarked airily--"quite so! For my part, such rules no longer
apply to me."
Fatal vaunt! Next moment Dicky was frantically embracing me before all
Trinity Street.
"Brave heart," he announced, "this is providential! You are a godsend--a
_deus ex machina_--a little cherub sent from aloft! It never occurred
to me: I need not go to The Tut for leave at all now! It would have
been a forlorn hope in any case. But now all is well. _You_ shall come
to the dinner. In fact, you shall _give_ it! Then no Tut in the world
can interfere. Come along, host and honoured guest! Come and see Wicky
about it!"
As The Freak hustled me down All Saints' Passage, I enquired plaintively
who Mr. Wicky might be.
"Wickham is his name," replied The Freak. "He is nominally giving the
dinner. We are going to--"
"Pardon me," I interposed. "How many people _are_ nominally giving this
dinner? So far, we have you, Wicky, and myself. I--"
"It's this way," explained my friend. "Wicky is nominally the host; he
will do the honours. But I have dropped out. The dinner will be ordered
in your name now. That's all."
"Why is Wicky nominally the host?" I enquired, still befogged.
"We are all giving the dinner--seven of us," explained The Freak; "all
except yourself and The Jebber, in fact. Wicky has to be host because
he is the only man who is not going to the dinner disguised as some one
else. Now, do you understand?"
"There are one or two minor points," I remarked timidly, "which--"
"Go ahead!" sighed my friend.
"Who," I enquired, "is The Jebber? And why should he share with me the
privilege of not paying for his dinner?"
The Freak became suddenly serious.
"The Jebber," he said, "is a poisonous growth called Jebson. He is in
his first year. He owns bags of money, which he squanders in the wrong
manner on every occasion. He runs after Blues and other celebrities,
but has never caught one yet. On the other hand, he is rude to porters
and bedmakers. He gathers unto himself bands of admiring smugs and
tells them of the fast life he lives in town. He plays no games of any
kind, except a little billiards with the marker, but he buttonholes you
outside Hall in the evening and tells you how much he has won by backing
the winner of the three o'clock race by wire. I think he has a kind of
vague notion that he is sowing wild oats; but as he seems quite
incapable of speaking the truth, I have no idea whether he is the
vicious young mug he makes himself out to be or is merely endeavouring
to impress us yokels. That is the sort of customer The Jebber is."
"And you have invited him to dinner?" I said.
"Yes; it's like this. We stood him as well as we could for quite a long
while. Then, one evening, he turned up in my rooms when half a dozen of
us were there--he is on my staircase, and I had rashly called upon him
his first term--and after handing out a few fairy tales about his
triumphs as a lady's man, he pulled a photograph from his pocket and
passed it round. It was a girl--a jolly pretty girl, too! He said he
was engaged to her. Said it as if--" The Freak's honest face grew
suddenly hot, and his fingers bit ferociously into my arm. "Well, he
began to talk about her. Said she was 'fearfully mashed on him!' That
fairly turned our stomachs to begin with, but there was more to come.
He confided to us that she was a dear little thing, but not quite up to
his form; and he did n't intend to marry her until he had sown a few
more of his rotten wild oats. And so on. That settled me, Tiny! So
far I had not been so fierce about him as the other men. I had
considered him just a harmless bounder, who would tone down when he got
into the ways of the place. But a fellow who would talk like that before
a roomful of men about a girl--his own girl--My God, Tiny! what would
you do with such a thing?"
"Kill it," I said simply.
"That's what we nearly did, on the spot," said Dicky. "But--well--one
feels a delicacy about even taking notice of that sort of stuff. You
understand?"
I nodded. The reserve of the youthful male on affairs of the heart is
much deeper than that of the female, though the female can never
recognise the fact.
"So we simply sat still, feeling we should like to be sick. Then the
man Jebson gave himself a respite and us an idea by going on to talk of
his social ambitions. He confided to us that he had come up here to
form influential friendships--with athletic bloods, future statesmen,
sons of peers, and so forth. He explained that it was merely a matter
of money. All he wanted was a start. As soon as the athletes and peers
heard of him and his wealth, they would be only too pleased to hobnob
with him. Suddenly old Wicky, who had been sitting in the corner
absolutely mum, as usual, asked him straight off to come and dine with
him, and said he would get a few of the most prominent men in the
'Varsity to come and meet him. We simply gaped at first, but presently
we saw there was some game on; and when The Jebber had removed himself,
Wicky explained what he wanted us to do. He's a silent bird, Wicky, but
he thinks a lot. Here are his digs."
We had reached a house in Jesus Lane, which we now entered, ascending to
the first floor.
Dicky rapidly introduced me to Mr. Wickham, who had just finished
luncheon. He proved to be a young gentleman of diminutive stature and
few words, in a Leander tie. He was, it appeared, a coxswain of high
degree, and was only talkative when afloat. Then, one learned, he was a
terror. It was credibly reported that on one occasion a freshman rowing
bow in a trial eight, of a sensitive temperament and privately educated,
had burst into tears and tried to throw away his oar after listening to
Mr. Wickham's blistering comments upon the crew in general and himself
in particular during a particularly unsteady half-minute round Grassy
Corner.
He silently furnished us with cigarettes, and my somewhat unexpected
inclusion in the coming revels was explained to him.
"Good egg!" he remarked, when Dicky had finished. "Go round to the
kitchen presently. Have dinner in these rooms, Freak. May be awkward
for the men to get into College all togged up."
"You see the idea now, Tiny?" said Dicky to me. "Wicky is going to be
host, and the rest of us are going to dress up as influential young
members of the University. We shall pull The Jebber's leg right off!"
"Do you think you will be able to keep up your assumed characters all
dinner-time?" I asked. "You know what sometimes happens towards the end
of--"
"That's all right," said The Freak. "We are n't going to keep it up
right to the end. At a given signal we shall unveil."
"What then?" I enquired, not without concern.
"We shall hold a sort of court martial. After that I don't quite know
what we will do, but we ought to be able to think of something pretty
good by then," replied The Freak confidently.
Mr. Wickham summed up the situation.
"The man Jebson," he said briefly, "must die."
"What character are you going to assume?" I enquired of The Freak.
"Athlete, politician, peer, scholar--?"
"I am the Marquis of Puddox," said my friend, with simple dignity.
"Only son," added Mr. Wickham, "of the Duke of Damsillie. Scotland for
ever!"
"A Highlander?" I asked.
"Yes," said The Freak gleefully. "I am going to wear a red beard and
talk Gaelic."
"Who are to be the other--inmates?" I asked.
"You'll see when the time comes," replied Dicky. "At present we have to
decide on a part for you, my lad."
"I think I had better be Absent Friends," I said. "Then I need not
come, but you can drink my health."
Mr. Wickham said nothing, but rose to his feet and crossed the room to
the mantelpiece. On the corner of the mirror which surmounted it hung a
red Turkish fez, with a long black tassel. This my host reached down
and handed to me.
"Wear that," he said briefly--"with your ordinary evening things."
"What shall I be then?" I enquired meekly.
"Junior Egyptologist to the Fitzwilliam Museum," replied the fertile Mr.
Wickham.
II
That shrinking but helpless puppet, the Junior Egyptologist to the
Fitzwilliam Museum, duly presented himself at Mr. Wickham's at
seven-thirty that evening, surmounted by the fez.
Here I was introduced to the guest of the evening, Mr. Jebson. He was a
pasty-faced, pig-eyed youth of about four-and-twenty, in an
extravagantly cut dress suit with a velvet collar. He wore a diamond
ring and a soft shirt. He looked like an unsuccessful compromise
between a billiard-marker and a casino croupier at a French
watering-place. His right forefinger was firmly embedded in the
buttonhole of a shaggy monster in a kilt, whom, from the fact that he
spoke a language which I recognised as that of Mr. Harry Lauder, I took
to be the heir of the Duke of Damsillie.
The Freak was certainly playing his part as though he enjoyed it, but
the other celebrities, who stood conversing in a sheepish undertone in
various corners, looked too like stage conspirators to be entirely
convincing. However, Mr. Jebson appeared to harbour no suspicion as to
the _bona fides_ of the company in which he found himself, which was the
main point.
I was now introduced to the President of the Cambridge University Boat
Club, a magnificent personage in a made-up bow tie of light-blue satin;
to the Sultan of Cholerabad, a coffee-coloured potentate in sweeping
Oriental robes, in whom the dignity that doth hedge a king was less
conspicuous than a thoroughly British giggle; and to the Senior Wrangler
of the previous year, who wore a turn-down collar, trousers the
bagginess of which a music-hall comedian would have envied, and blue
spectacles.
Mesmerised by Mr. Wickham's cold eye and correct deportment, we greeted
one another with stately courtesy: but the President of the Boat Club
winked at me cheerfully; the Sultan of Cholerabad, scrutinising my fez,
enquired in broken English the exact date of my escape from the
cigarette factory; and the Senior Wrangler invited my opinion, _sotto
voce_, upon the cut of his trousers.
In a distant corner of the room, which was very dimly lighted,--probably
for purposes of theatrical effect,--I descried two more guests--uncanny
figures both. One was a youth in semi-clerical attire, with short
trousers and white cotton socks, diligently exercising what is best
described as a Private Secretary voice upon his companion, a
scarlet-faced gentleman in an exaggerated hunting-kit--horn and all.
The latter I identified (rightly) as The Master of the University
Bloodhounds, but I was at a loss to assign a character to The Private
Secretary. I learned during the evening, from his own lips, that he was
the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology.
The party was completed by the arrival of a stout young gentleman with a
strong German accent and fluffy hair. He was presented to us as The
Baron Guldenschwein. (He actually was a Baron, as it turned out, but
not a German. However, he possessed a strong sense of humour--a more
priceless possession than sixty-four quarterings or a castle on the
Rhine.)
Dinner was announced, and we took our places. Wickham sat at the head of
the table, with Mr. Jebson on his right and the Marquis of Puddox on his
left. I took the foot, supported on either hand by the President of the
Boat Club and the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology. The other
four disposed themselves in the intervening places, the Sultan taking
his seat upon Jebson's right, with the Baron opposite.
The dinner was served in the immaculate fashion customary at
undergraduate feasts and other functions where long-suffering parents
loom in the background with cheque-books. The table decorations had
obviously been selected upon the principle that what is most expensive
must be best, and each guest was confronted with a much beribboned menu
with his title printed upon it. Champagne, at the covert but urgent
representation of the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology, was
served with the _hors d'oeuvres_.
At first we hardly lived up to our costumes. A practical joke which
begins upon an empty stomach does not usually speed from the mark.
Fortunately The Freak, who was not as other men are in these matters,
had entered upon his night's work at the very top of his form, and he
gave us all an invaluable lead. The fish found him standing with one
foot upon the table, pledging Mr. Jebson in language which may have been
Gaelic, but more nearly resembled the baying of one of the University
bloodhounds. This gave us courage, and presently the Assistant
Theologian and the M.B.H. abandoned a furtive interchange of Rugby
football "shop" and entered into a heated discussion with the Senior
Wrangler upon certain drastic alterations which, apparently, the
mathematical savants of the day contemplated making in the
multiplication table.
I devoted my attention chiefly to observing the masterly fashion in
which The Freak and the saturnine Mr. Wickham handled Jebson. The
latter was without doubt a most unpleasant creature. The undergraduate
tolerates and, too often, admires the vicious individual who is reputed
to be a devil of a fellow. Still, that individual usually has some
redeeming qualities. In the ordinary way of business he probably pulls
an oar and shoves in the scrimmage as heartily as his neighbour: his
recourses to riotous living are in the nature of reaction from these
strenuous pursuits. They arise less from a desire to pose as a man of
the world than from sheer weakness of the flesh. He is not in the least
proud of them: indeed, like the rest of us, he is usually very repentant
afterwards. And above all, he observes a decent reticence about his
follies. He regards them as liabilities, not assets; and therein lies
the difference between him and creatures of the Jebson type. Jebson
took no part in clean open-air enthusiasms: he had few moments of
reckless self-abandonment: to him the serious business of life was the
methodical establishment of a reputation as a _viveur_. He sought to
excite the admiration of his fellows by the recital of his exploits in
what he called "the world." Such, naturally, were conspicuous neither
for reticence nor truth. He was a pitiful transparent fraud, and I felt
rather surprised, as I considered the elaborate nature of the present
scheme for his discomfiture, that the tolerant easy-going crew who sat
round the table should have thought the game worth the candle. I began
to feel rather sorry for Jebson. After all, he was not the only noxious
insect in the University. Then I remembered the story of the girl's
photograph, and I understood. It was an ill day for The Jebber, I
reflected, when he spoke lightly of his lady-love in the presence of
Dicky Mainwaring.
The banquet ran its course. Presently dessert was placed upon the table
and the waiters withdrew. The Sultan of Cholerabad, I noticed, had
mastered the diffidence which had characterised his behaviour during the
earlier stages of the proceedings, and was now joining freely in the
conversation at the head of the table. I overheard Mr. Jebson extending
to him a cordial invitation to come up with him to town at the end of
the term and be introduced to a galaxy of music-hall stars, jockeys, and
bookmakers--an invitation which had already been deferentially accepted
by Mr. Wickham and the Marquis of Puddox. In return, the Sultan
announced that the harem at Cholerabad was open to inspection by select
parties of visitors on Tuesdays and Thursdays, on presentation of
visiting-card.
The spirits of the party in general were now rising rapidly, and more
than once the tranquillity of the proceedings was seriously imperilled.
After the Baron Guldenschwein had been frustrated in an attempt to
recite an ode in praise of the Master of the Bloodhounds (on the
somewhat inadequate grounds that "I myself wear always bogskin boods"),
our nominal host found himself compelled to cope with the Assistant
Professor of Comparative Theology, who, rising unsteadily to his legs,
proclaimed his intention of giving imitations of a few celebrated
actors, beginning with Sir Henry Irving. The Theologian was in a
condition which rendered censure and argument equally futile. He had
consumed perhaps half a bottle of champagne and two glasses of port, so
it was obvious that his present exalted condition was due not so much to
the depths of his potations as to the shallowness of his accommodation
for the same. I for one, having drunk at least as much as he and
feeling painfully decorous, forbore to judge him. The rest of the
company were sober enough, but leniently disposed, and our theological
friend was allowed his way. He threw himself into a convulsive
attitude, mouthed out an entirely unintelligible limerick about a young
man from Patagonia, and sat down abruptly, well pleased with his
performance.
Then came an ominous silence. The time for business was at hand. Mr.
Jebson, still impervious to atmospheric influence, selected this moment
for weaving his own shroud. He rose to his feet and made a speech. He
addressed us as "fellow-sports"; he referred to Mr. Wickham as "our
worthy Chair," and to myself as "our young friend Mr. Vice." The
company as a whole he designated "hot stuff." After expressing, with
evident sincerity, the pleasure with which he found himself in his
present company, he revealed to us the true purport of his uprising,
which was to propose the toast of "The Girls." Under the circumstances
a more unfortunate selection of subject could not have been made. The
speaker had barely concluded his opening sentence when the Marquis of
Puddox, speaking in his natural tone of voice, rose to his feet and
brought what promised to be a rather nauseous eulogy to a summary
conclusion.
"Dry up," he rapped out, "and sit down at once. Clear the table, you
fellows, and get the tablecloth off."
Without further ado the distinguished company present, with the
exception of the Theologian, who had retired into a corner by himself to
rehearse an imitation, obeyed Dicky's behest. The decanters and glasses
were removed to the sideboard, and the cloth was whipped off.
"Take this loathsome sweep," continued the Marquis in the same
dispassionate voice, indicating the guest of the evening, now as white
as his own shirt-front, "and tie him up with table-napkins."
The dazed Jebson offered no resistance. Presently he found himself
lying flat on his back upon the table, his arms and legs pinioned by Mr.
Wickham's table-linen.
"Roll him up in the tablecloth," was The Freak's next order, "and set
him on a chair."
This time Jebson found his tongue.
"Gentlemen all," he gasped between revolutions--the Master of the
Bloodhounds and Baron Guldenschwein were swiftly converting him into a
snowy cocoon--"a joke's all very well in its way between pals; but--"
"Put him on that chair," continued Dicky, taking not the slightest
notice.
Willing hands dumped the mummified and inanimate form of Jebson into an
armchair, and the unique collection of Sports sat round him in a ring.
Then suddenly Dicky laughed.
"That's all, Jebson," he said. "We are n't going to do anything else
with you. You are not worth it."
Mr. Jebson, who had been expecting the Death by a Thousand Cuts at the
very least, merely gaped like a stranded carp. He was utterly
demoralised. To a coward, fear of pain is worse than pain itself.
Dicky continued:--
"We merely want to inform you that we think you are not suited to
University life. The great world without is calling you. You are
wasted here: in fact, you have been a bit of a failure. You mean well,
but you are lacking in perception. There is too much Ego in your
Cosmos. Napoleon, you will remember, suffered from the same infirmity.
For nearly two terms you have deluded yourself into the belief that we
think you a devil of a fellow. We have sat and listened politely to
your reminiscences: we have permitted you to refer to all the Strand
loafers that one has ever heard of by their pet names. And all the time
you have entirely failed to realise that we see through you. For a
while you rather amused us, but now we are fed up with you. You are
getting the College a bad name, too. We are not a very big College, but
we are a very old and very proud one, and we have always kept our end up
against larger and less particular establishments. So I'm afraid we must
part with you. You are too high for us. That is all, I think. Would
any one else like to say anything?"
"Are n't we going to toy with him a little?" asked the Senior Wrangler.
"We might bastinado him, or shave one side of his head."
But Dicky would have none of it.
"Too childish," he said. "We will just leave him as he is, and finish
our evening. Then he can go home and pack his carpet-bag. But"--The
Freak turned suddenly and savagely upon the gently perspiring
Jebson--"let me give you one hint, my lad. Never again mention ladies'
names before a roomful of men, or, by God, you'll get a lesson from some
one some day that you will remember to the end of your life! That is
all. I have finished. The Committee for Dealing with Public Nuisances
is dissolved. Let us--"
"I will now," suddenly remarked a confidential but slightly vinous voice
from the other end of the room, "have great pleasure in giving you an
imitation of Mr. Beerbohm Tree."
And the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology, who had been
neglecting the role of avenging angel in order to prime himself at the
sideboard for another excursion into the realms of mimetic art, struck
exactly the same attitude as before, and began to mouth out, with
precisely similar intonation and gesture, the limerick which had already
done duty in the case of Sir Henry Irving.
After this the proceedings degenerated rapidly into a "rag" of the most
ordinary and healthy type. The company, having dined, had ceased to
feel vindictive, and The Freak's admirably appropriate handling of the
situation met with their entire appreciation. With relief they
proceeded from labour to recreation. Mr. Jebson was unceremoniously
bundled into a corner; some one opened Mr. Wickham's piano, and in two
minutes an impromptu dance was in full swing. I first found myself
involved in an extravagant perversion of the Lancers, danced by the
entire strength of the company with the exception of Baron
Guldenschwein, who presided at the piano. After this the Theologian,
amid prolonged cries of dissent, gave another imitation--I think it was
of Sarah Bernhardt--which was terminated by a happy suggestion of
Dicky's that the entertainer should be "forcibly fed"--an overripe
banana being employed as the medium of nourishment. Then the Baron
struck up "The Eton Boating Song." Next moment I found myself (under
strict injunctions to remember that I was "lady") waltzing madly round
in the embrace of the Senior Wrangler, dimly wondering whether the role
of battering-ram which I found thrust upon me during the next ten
minutes was an inevitable one for all female partners, and if so, why
girls ever went to balls.
Presently my partner suggested a rest, and having propped me with
exaggerated gallantry against the window-ledge, took off his dickey and
fanned me with it.
After that we played "Nuts in May."
The fun grew more uproarious. Each man was enjoying himself with that
priceless _abandon_ which only youth can confer, little recking that
with the passing of a very few years he would look back from the
world-weary heights of, say, twenty-five, upon such a memory as this
with pained and incredulous amazement. Later still, say at forty, he
would look back again, and the retrospect would warm his heart. For the
present, however, our warmth was of a purely material nature, and the
only Master of Arts present mopped his streaming brow and felt glad that
he was alive. To a man who has worked without a holiday for three years
either in a drawing-office or an engineering-shop in South London, an
undergraduate riot of the most primitive description is not without its
points.
"The Eton Boating Song" is an infectious measure: in a short time we
were all singing as well as dancing. The floor trembled: the chandelier
rattled: the windows shook: Jesus Lane quaked.
"Swing, swing, together,"
we roared,
"With your bodies between your--"
_Crash!_
The flowing tartan plaid which adorned the shoulders of the scion of the
house of Damsillie had spread itself abroad, and, encircling in a
clinging embrace the trussed and pinioned form of the much-enduring
Jebson, had whipped him from his stool of penance and caused him, from
no volition of his own, to join the glad throng of waltzers, much as a
derelict tree-trunk joins a whirlpool. In a trice the Assistant
Professor of Comparative Theology and the President of the University
Boat Club, who were performing an intricate reversing movement at the
moment, tripped heavily backwards over his prostrate form, while the
Most Noble the Marquis of Puddox (and lady), brought up in full career
by the stoutly resisting plaid, fell side by side upon the field. The
Senior Wrangler and the Junior Egyptologist, whirling like dervishes,
topped the heap a moment later. The Baron Guldenschwein and the Master
of the Bloodhounds leavened the whole lump.
My head struck the floor with a dull thud. Simultaneously some one (I
think it was the Senior Wrangler) put his foot into my left ear. Even at
this excruciating moment I remember reflecting that it would be a
difficult matter, after this, to maintain a distant or stand-offish
attitude towards the gentleman who at this moment was acting as the
foundation-stone of our pyramid.
The music ceased, with a suddenness that suggested musical chairs, and I
was aware of an ominous silence. Disengaging my neck from the embrace
of a leg clad in a baggy silk trousering,--evidently it belonged to the
Sultan: how he got into that galley I have no conception, for he had
recently relieved the Baron at the piano,--I struggled to my hands and
knees and crawled out of the turmoil upon the floor.
Set amid the constellation of stars which still danced round my ringing
head, I beheld a sleek but burly gentleman in sober black, silk hat in
hand, standing in the doorway. He was a University bull-dog. We were
in the clutches of the Law.
"Proctor's compliments, gentlemen, and will the gentleman what these
rooms belong to kindly step--"
It was a familiar formula. Wickham, who had struggled to his feet,
answered at once:--
"All right; I'll come down. Wait till I put my collar on. Is the
Proctor downstairs?"
"Yes, sir," said the man.
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Sandeman, sir."
"Sandy? Golly!" commented Mr. Wickham, swiftly correcting the disorder
of his array. Several people whistled lugubriously. Wickham turned to
Dicky.
"I'll go down," he said. "You sort out those chaps on the floor."
He disappeared with the bull-dog, leaving Dicky and myself to
disintegrate the happy heap of arms and legs upon the carpet.
Ultimately we uncovered our foundation-stone, black in the face, but
resigned. We unrolled his winding-sheet, cut his bonds, and were
administering first aid of a hearty but unscientific description when
there was a cry from Dicky--
"Ducker, you young fool, where are you going to?"
Ducker, it appeared, was the real name of the Assistant Theologian. (As
a matter of fact, it was Duckworth.) He was already at the door.
Finding his exit detected, he drew himself up with an air of rather
precarious dignity, and replied:--
"I am going to speak to Sandy."
"What for?"
"Sandy," explained Mr. Ducker rapidly, "has never seen my imitation of
George Alexander as the Prisoner of Zenda. He has got to have it now!"
Next moment the persevering pantomimist had disappeared, and we heard
him descending the stairs in a series of kangaroo-like leaps.
"Come on, Bill," said Dicky to me. "We must follow him quick, or there
will be trouble."
We raced downstairs into the entrance-hall. The open doorway framed the
dishevelled figure of Mr. Duckworth. He was calling aloud the name of
one Sandy, beseeching him to behold George Alexander. Outside in the
gloom of Jesus Lane we beheld Mr. Wickham arguing respectfully with a
majestic figure in a black gown, white bands, and baleful spectacles.
With a sinking heart I recognised one of the two saturnine clerical
gentlemen in whose presence I had been presented for my M.A. degree only
a few hours before.
"Sandy, old son," bellowed Mr. Duckworth perseveringly, "be a sportsman
and look at me a minute!" He was now out upon the doorstep, posturing.
"Flavia! Fla-a-a-via!" he yowled.
"It's no good our pulling him back into the house," said Dicky, "or
Sandy will have him for certain. Let's rush him down the street, and
hide somewhere."
Next moment, with a hand upon each of the histrionic Theologian's
shoulders, we were flying down Jesus Lane. Behind us thundered the feet
of one of the minions of the Reverend Hugo Sandeman. (The other had
apparently been retained to guard the door.) Mr. Duckworth, suddenly
awake to the reality of the situation and enjoying himself hugely,
required no propulsion. In fact, he was soon towing us--so fast that
Dicky, encumbered by his chieftain's costume, and I, who had not
sprinted for three years, had much ado to hold on to him. The bull-dog,
who was corpulent and more than middle-aged, presently fell behind.
It was raining slightly and there were not many people about, for it was
close on ten o'clock. We emerged at the double from Jesus Lane into
Sidney Street, and dashed down the first available opening. It brought
us into a narrow alley--one of the innumerable "passages" with which
Cambridge is honeycombed. Here we halted and listened intently.
III
Having now leisure to review the incredible sequence of events which had
resulted in my being hounded through the streets of Cambridge by the
University authorities,--when by University law I should have been one
of the hounds,--in company with two undergraduates, one attired as a
sort of burlesque Rob Roy and the other in a state of more than doubtful
sobriety, I embarked upon a series of gloomy but useless reflections
upon my imbecility. My only consolation was derived from the knowledge
that I no longer wore the insignia of the Junior Egyptologist, having
mislaid that accursed ornament in the course of the evening's revels.
My meditations were interrupted by the voice of The Freak.
"What shall we do next?" he enquired, with great gusto.
"Go home," said I, without hesitation.
"How?"
"Straight on: this passage must lead somewhere."
"Does it? Have you ever been down it before?"
"I can't remember; but--"
"Well, I have, and it does n't lead anywhere, young feller-my-lad.
That's why that blamed bull-dog of Sandy's has n't followed us up
harder. He knows he has got us on toast. I expect they 're all waiting
for us at the mouth of this rat-hole now."
Certainly we were in a tight corner. But even now The Freak's amazing
resource did not fail him. We were standing at the moment outside a
building of rather forbidding aspect, which had the appearance of a
parish institute. The windows of one of the rooms on the ground-floor
were brightly lighted, and even as we looked a large podgy young man, of
the Sunday-School superintendent type, appeared on the front steps. We
feigned absorption in a large printed notice which stood outside the
door.
The podgy man addressed us.
"Are you coming in, gentlemen? You'll find it worth your while. The
professor is only just 'ere, 'avin' missed 'is train from King's Cross;
so we are goin' to begin at once." He spoke in the honeyed--not to say
oily--accents of a certain type of "townee" who sees a chance of making
something out of a 'Varsity man, and his conversation was naturally
addressed to me. My two companions kept modestly in the shadows. "First
lecture free to all," continued the podgy young man, smiling invitingly.
"Members of the University specially welcomed."
At this moment The Freak emerged into the full glare of the electric
light, and nudged me meaningly in the ribs.
"I have two friends with me," I said--"one from Scotland--er--the North
of Scotland. I am taking them for an after-dinner stroll, to view the
Colleges, and--er--so on."
"All are welcome," repeated the young man faintly, gazing in a dazed
fashion at the Marquis of Puddox. "Step inside."
What we were in for we did not know. But it was a case of any port in a
storm, and we all three allowed ourselves to be shepherded into a room
containing some fifteen people, who, to judge by the state of the
atmosphere, had been there some time. Our entrance caused an obvious
flutter, and distracted the attention of the room from a diminutive
foreigner in a frayed frock-coat, with a little pointed beard and
pathetic brown eyes, who was sitting nervously on the edge of a chair,
endeavouring to look collected under the blighting influence of a good
honest British stare. The three newcomers at once retired to the only
unoccupied corner of the room, where it was observed that the clerical
member of the party immediately adopted a somewhat unconventional
attitude and composed himself to slumber.
At this point the podgy young man, who appeared to be the secretary of
the club,--some society for mutual improvement,--rose to his feet and
announced that he had great pleasure in introducing "the professor" to
the company. Apparently we were to have a French lesson. We had arrived
just in time for the opening ceremony, which we might enjoy free gratis
and for nothing; but if we desired to come again--a highly improbable
contingency, I thought--we were at liberty to do so every Thursday
evening throughout the quarter, at a fee of one guinea.
"I think, gentlemen," concluded the secretary, "that you will find your
money 'as been well laid out. We 'ave very 'igh reports of the
professor's abilities, and I am glad to see that the fame of 'is
teaching 'as been sufficient to attract a member of the University here
to-night."
At this he bowed deferentially in our direction, and there was some
faint applause. To my horror Dicky promptly rose to his feet, and,
returning the podgy young man's bow, delivered himself in a resonant
Gaelic whinny of the following outrageous flight of fancy:--
"Hech-na hoch-na hoy ah hoo!"
As delivered, I am bound to admit that it sounded like a perfectly
genuine expression of Celtic fervour. Dicky sat down, amid an
interested murmur, and whispered hurriedly to me:--
"Interpret, old soul!"
I rose miserably to my feet.
"My friend," I announced, wondering dimly how long it would be before
the podgy young man and his satellites uprose and cast us forth, "has
replied to your very kind welcome by a quotation from one of his
national poets,--er, Ossian,--which, roughly translated, means that,
however uncouth his exterior may be, he never forgets a kindness!"
Which was rather good, I think.
There was more applause, which had the disastrous effect of rousing Mr.
Duckworth from his slumbers. Finding that every one present was
clapping his hands and looking in his direction, he struggled to his
feet.
"Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen," he began cheerfully, "in response
to your most flattering encore I shall have great pleasure, with your
attention and permission, in givin' you my celebrated imitation"--here
he began to stiffen into the old familiar epileptic attitude--"of Sir
George Irving--"
We drew him down, as gently as possible, into his seat, and the
secretary, slightly disconcerted, called upon the lecturer to begin.
The professor rose, and having bowed gallantly to the secretary's wife,
the only lady present,--a courtesy which was acknowledged by that young
woman, with true British politeness, by a convulsive giggle,--proceeded,
in language which betrayed the fact that although he might be able to
teach French he could not pronounce English, to explain his _modus
operandi_. He proposed, we discovered, to describe in his own tongue
some familiar scene of everyday life, suiting his action to the word,
and laying his hand, whenever possible, upon the objects mentioned in
his discourse, in order to assist us in grasping his meaning.
"_Par exemple_," he explained, "if I touch ze 'at of madam, so"--here he
darted across the room and laid a playful finger on the brim of Mrs.
Secretary's rather flamboyant headgear, a familiarity which that paragon
of British propriety greeted with an hysterical "Ow, George!"--"and say
_chapeau_, den you vill onnerstand vat I mean."
"I doubt it, old son," observed Mr. Duckworth gravely.
"To-night," continued the professor, who had fortunately been unable to
understand this innuendo, "I vill describe a simple scene zat you all
know--_n'est-ce pas_?"
Here he struck an attitude, as if to imply that they must be careful not
to miss this bit, and declaimed:--
"_Ze postman, 'ow 'e brings ze letters._"
This announcement was greeted with a stony silence.
"I tell you ze title," he added in warning tones, "but after now I spik
no more Engleesh."
"Quite right; I would n't if I were you," remarked Mr. Duckworth
approvingly.
The professor bowed politely at this commendation from such an exalted
quarter, and plunged into his subject.
"_Le facteur, comment il apporte les lettres!_"
The audience, composed exclusively of podgy young men like the
secretary, received this exordium with different degrees of
self-consciousness, after the manner of the Englishman when a foreign
language is spoken in his presence. Some looked extremely knowing,
while others stirred uneasily in their seats, and regarded each other
with shamefaced grins.
The professor meanwhile had advanced to the window, and was gazing
excitedly out into the darkness.
"_Regardez le facteur qui s'approche!_" he cried, pointing with his
finger in the direction where I calculated that the Reverend Hugo and
his attendant fiends were probably still waiting for us; "_dans la rue,
la-bas! Il m'apporte peut-etre une lettre! Mais de qui? Ah, de--_"
Here he clutched his heart convulsively, evidently bent upon a touch of
humorous sentiment: but a glance at the adamantine countenances of his
audience caused him to change his mind, and he continued, rather
lamely:--
"_Je descendrai au rez-de-chaussee. Je m'approche a la porte_--pardon,
m'sieur!"
The last remark was addressed to Mr. Duckworth, the professor having
stumbled over his legs on his way to the door. The Theologian responded
politely with an imitation of a man drawing a cork, and the
demonstration proceeded.
"_Je saisis le bouton,_" continued our instructor, convulsively
clutching the door-handle. "_Je tour-r-r-rne le bouton! J'ouvre la
porte! Je m'eloigne dans le corridor_--Oh, pardon, m'sieur! Je vous--"
He had torn open the door with a flourish and hurled himself into the
passage in faithful pursuance of his system, only to collide heavily and
audibly with some unyielding body outside.
"Proctor's compliments, sir," said a deep voice, "but if you are in
charge 'ere, will you kindly come and speak to 'im a minute?"
The Frenchman's answering flood of incomprehensible explanation was cut
short by the secretary, who rose from his seat and hurried out. A few
questions and answers passed between him and the bull-dog, and then we
heard their footsteps dying away in the direction of the front door,
where the Reverend Hugo was doubtless waiting.
Next moment the company in the room were surprised, and I firmly believe
disappointed, when the three last-joined recruits, after a hurried
glance round the walls as if for a humbler means of exit, rose and
unostentatiously quitted the apartment by the door.
----
Once in the passage, we turned hastily and blindly to the left, leaving
behind us the front door, which was blocked by an animated group
composed of the secretary, the professor,--what he was doing there I do
not know: perhaps he thought that three more pupils were applying for
admission,--and the larger of the Reverend Hugo's two bull-dogs, while
that avenging angel's voice could be heard uplifted in a stately
harangue outside.
We scuttled up the passage and dived through the first door that
presented itself, closing and locking it behind us. On turning up the
electric light we found ourselves in a large deserted room, occupied by
two bagatelle tables. It was unfortunately lighted from the roof, which
put escape by the window out of the question. However, at the far end we
spied another door. Through this we rushed, into what appeared to be a
recreation-room, occupied solely by two spectacled gentlemen immersed in
a game of chess. Their surprise when three total strangers, two in
unusual dress and all in an obvious hurry, invaded the privacy of their
apartment, only to make a hasty and undignified exit by the window, must
have been considerable, but we did not stay to observe it.
IV
Three weeks later The Freak came up to town for his Easter vacation, and
dined with me at my club, and I heard the end of the tale.
Nothing very dreadful had happened, it appeared. Mr. Wickham, having
laconically accepted full responsibility for the riot in his rooms, had
been gated at eight for the rest of the term. The fact that I had
ordered the dinner was unknown to the Proctors, and the College cook had
not enlightened them. The identity of the Marquis of Puddox, the Junior
Egyptologist, and the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology had
never been discovered.
"So your guilty secret, old thing," concluded Dicky, "is safe. And now
I want to invite you to another function."
"Thank you," I said gruffly, "but I think not. What sort of function is
it this time?"
"A wedding," replied Dicky unexpectedly.
"Great Scott! Yours?"
"No--The Jebber's! He has grown quite a white man. The little homily
which I took the liberty of delivering to him that evening, coupled with
the very light sentence imposed, quite won his heart, it appears. He
never leaves me now. Eats out of my hand. He is going down at the end
of the May term like a sensible Jebber, and he is to be married to his
girl in June."
"The girl of the photograph?"
"Yes. He has quite got over his wild-oats theories, and his girl now
has him completely in hand. I have seen them together, and I know. They
are very happy."
My romantic friend sighed comfortably, and concluded:--
"I have promised to be best man."
"You?"
"Yes; he asked me, and one can't decline. You are coming with me,
fellow-sport, to represent the Senior Members of the University!"
I went. No one ever refuses anything to The Freak.
BOOK TWO
A BLIND ALLEY