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_ALSO BY HORACE A. VACHELL_
QUINNEYS'
THE HILL
A ROMANCE OF FRIENDSHIP
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
FIRST EDITION _April, 1905_
_Fortieth Impression_ _Jan., 1950_
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Greek
text has been transliterated and is shown between {braces}.
To
GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL
I dedicate this Romance of Friendship to you with the sincerest pleasure
and affection. You were the first to suggest that I should write a book
about contemporary life at Harrow; you gave me the principal idea; you
have furnished me with notes innumerable; you have revised every page of
the manuscript; and you are a peculiarly keen Harrovian.
In making this public declaration of my obligations to you, I take the
opportunity of stating that the characters in "The Hill," whether
masters or boys, are not portraits, although they may be called,
truthfully enough, composite photographs; and that the episodes of
Drinking and Gambling are founded on isolated incidents, not on habitual
practices. Moreover, in attempting to reproduce the curious admixture of
"strenuousness and sentiment"--your own phrase--which animates so
vitally Harrow life, I have been obliged to select the less common types
of Harrovian. Only the elect are capable of such friendship as John
Verney entertained for Henry Desmond; and few boys, happily, are
possessed of such powers as Scaife is shown to exercise. But that there
are such boys as Verney and Scaife, nobody knows better than yourself.
Believe me,
Yours most gratefully,
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
BEECHWOOD,
_February 22, 1905_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE MANOR 1
II. CAESAR 19
III. KRAIPALE 35
IV. TORPIDS 58
V. FELLOWSHIP 70
VI. A REVELATION 92
VII. REFORM 107
VIII. VERNEY BOSCOBEL 123
IX. BLACK SPOTS 140
X. DECAPITATION 158
XI. SELF-QUESTIONING 173
XII. "LORD'S" 189
XIII. "IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 211
XIV. GOOD NIGHT 230
CHAPTER I
_The Manor_
"Five hundred faces, and all so strange!
Life in front of me--home behind,
I felt like a waif before the wind
Tossed on an ocean of shock and change.
"_Chorus._ Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the day that you came so strange and shy."
The train slid slowly out of Harrow station.
Five minutes before, a man and a boy had been walking up and down the
long platform. The boy wondered why the man, his uncle, was so strangely
silent. Then, suddenly, the elder John Verney had placed his hands upon
the shoulders of the younger John, looking down into eyes as grey and as
steady as his own.
"You'll find plenty of fellows abusing Harrow," he said quietly; "but
take it from me, that the fault lies not in Harrow, but in them. Such
boys, as a rule, do not come out of the top drawer. Don't look so
solemn. You're about to take a header into a big river. In it are rocks
and rapids; but you know how to swim, and after the first plunge you'll
enjoy it, as I did, amazingly."
"Ra--ther," said John.
In the New Forest, where John had spent most of his life at his uncle's
place of Verney Boscobel, this uncle, his dead father's only brother,
was worshipped as a hero. Indeed he filled so large a space in the boy's
imagination, that others were cramped for room. John Verney in India, in
Burmah, in Africa (he took continents in his stride), moved colossal.
And when uncle and nephew met, behold, the great traveller stood not
much taller than John himself! That first moment, the instant shattering
of a precious delusion, held anguish. But now, as the train whirled away
the silent, thin, little man, he began to expand again. John saw him
scaling heights, cutting a path through impenetrable forests, wading
across dismal swamps, an ever-moving figure, seeking the hitherto
unknowable and irreclaimable, introducing order where chaos reigned
supreme, a world-famous pioneer.
How good to think that John Verney was _his_ uncle, blood of his blood,
his, his, his--for all time!
And, long ago, John, senior, had come to Harrow; had felt what John,
junior, felt to the core--the dull, grinding wrench of separation, the
sense, not yet to be analysed by a boy, of standing alone upon the edge
of a river, indeed, into which he must plunge headlong in a few minutes.
Well, Uncle John had taken his "header" with a stout heart--who dared to
doubt that? Surely he had not waited, shivering and hesitating, at the
jumping-off place.
The train was now out of sight. John slipped the uncle's tip into his
purse, and walked out of the station and on to the road beyond, the road
which led to the top of the Hill.
_The Hill._
Presently, the boy reached some iron palings and a wicket-gate. His
uncle had pointed out this gate and the steep path beyond which led to
the top of the Hill, to the churchyard, to the Peachey tomb on which
Byron dreamed,[1] to the High Street--and to the Manor. It was pleasant
to remember that he was going to board at the Manor, with its
traditions, its triumphs, its record. In his uncle's day the Manor
ranked first among the boarding-houses. Not a doubt disturbed John's
conviction that it ranked first still.
The boy stared upwards with a keen gaze. Had the mother seen her son at
that moment, she might have discerned a subtle likeness between uncle
and nephew, not the likeness of the flesh, but of the spirit.
September rains, followed by a day of warm sunshine, had lured from the
earth a soft haze which obscured the big fields at the foot of the Hill.
John could make out fences, poplars, elms, Scotch firs, and spectral
houses. But, above, everything was clear. The school-buildings, such as
he could see, stood out boldly against a cloudless sky, and above these
soared the spire of Harrow Church, pointing an inexorable finger
upwards.
Afterwards this spot became dear to John Verney, because here, where
mists were chill and blinding, he had been impelled to leave the broad
high-road and take a path which led into a shadowy future. In obedience
to an impulse stronger than himself he had taken the short cut to what
awaited him.
For a few minutes he stood outside the palings, trying to choke down an
abominable lump in his throat. This was not his first visit to Harrow.
At the end of the previous term, he had ascended the Hill to pass the
entrance examination. A master from his preparatory school accompanied
him, an Etonian, who had stared rather superciliously--so John
thought--at buildings less venerable than those which Henry VI raised
near Windsor. John, who had perceptions, was elusively conscious that
his companion, too much of a gentleman to give his thoughts words, might
be contrasting a yeoman's work with a king's; and when the Etonian,
gazing across the plains below to where Windsor lay, a soft shadow upon
the horizon, said abruptly, "I wish Eton had been built upon a hill,"
John replied effusively: "Oh, sir, it _is_ decent of you to say that."
The examination, however, distracted his attention from all things save
the papers. To his delight he found these easy, and, as soon as he left
the examination-room, he was popped into a cab and taken back to town.
Coming down the flight of steps, he had seen a few boys hurrying up or
down the road. At these the Etonian cocked a twinkling eye.
"Queer kit you Harrow boys wear," he said.
John, inordinately grateful at this recognition of himself as an
Harrovian, forgave the gibe. It had struck him, also, that the shallow
straw hat, the swallow-tail coat, did look queer, but he regarded them
reverently as the uniform of a crack corps.
To-day, standing by the iron palings, John reviewed the events of the
last hour. The view was blurred by unshed tears. His uncle and he had
driven together to the Manor. Here, the explorer had exercised his
peculiar personal magnetism upon the house-master, a tall, burly man of
truculent aspect and speech. John realized proudly that his uncle was
the bigger of the two, and the giant acknowledged, perhaps grudgingly,
the dwarf's superiority. The talk, short enough, had wandered into
Darkest Africa. His uncle, as usual, said little, replying almost in
monosyllables to the questions of his host; but John junior told himself
exultantly that it was not necessary for Uncle John to talk; the wide
world knew what he had done.
Then his house-master, Rutford, had told John where to buy his first
straw hat.
"You can get one without an order at the beginning of each term," said
he, in a thick, rasping voice. "But you must ask me for an order if you
want a second."
Then he had shown John his room, to be shared with two other boys, and
had told him the hour of lock-up. And then, after tea, came the walk
down the hill, the tip, the firm grasp of the sinewy hand, and a
final--"God bless you."
Coming to the end of these reflections, confronted by the inexorable
future, and the necessity, no less inexorable, of stepping into it, John
passed through the gate. His heart fluttered furiously, and the lump in
the throat swelled inconveniently. John, however, had provided himself
with a "cure-all." Plunging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a
cartridge, an unused twenty-bore gun cartridge. Looking at this, John
smiled. When he smiled he became good-looking. The face, too long,
plain, but full of sense and humour, rounded itself into the gracious
curves of youth; the serious grey eyes sparkled; the lips, too firmly
compressed, parted, revealing admirable teeth, small and squarely set;
into the cheeks, brown rather than pink, flowed a warm stream of colour.
The cartridge stood for so much. Only a week before, Uncle John, on his
arrival from Manchuria, had handed his nephew a small leather case and a
key. The case held a double-barrelled, hammerless, ejector, twenty-bore
gun, with a great name upon its polished blue barrels.
The sight of the cartridge justified John's expectations. He put it back
into his pocket, and strode forward and upward.
* * * * *
Close to the School Chapel, John remarked a curly-headed young gentleman
of wonderfully prepossessing appearance, from whom emanated an air, an
atmosphere, of genial enjoyment which diffused itself. The bricks of the
school-buildings seemed redder and warmer, as if they were basking in
this sunny smile. The youth was smiling now, smiling--at John. For
several hours John had been miserably aware that surprises awaited him,
but not smiles. He knew no Harrovians; at his school, a small one, his
fellows were labelled Winchester, Eton, Wellington; none, curiously
enough, Harrow. And already he had passed half a dozen boys, the
first-comers, some strangers, like himself, and in each face he had read
indifference. Not one had taken the trouble to say, "Hullo! Who are
you?" after the rough and ready fashion of the private school.
And now this smiling, fascinating person was actually about to address
him, and in the old familiar style----
"Hullo!"
"Hullo!"
"I met your governor the other day."
"Did you?" John replied. His father had died when John was seven.
Obviously, a blunder in identity had created this genial smile. John
wished that his father had not died.
"Yes," pursued the smiling one, "I met him--partridge-shooting at
home--and he asked me to be on the look-out for you. It's queer you
should turn up at once, isn't it?"
"Yes," said John.
"Your governor looked awfully fit."
"Did he?" Then John added solemnly, "My governor died when I was a kid."
The other gasped; then he threw back his curly head and laughed.
"I say, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to laugh. If you're not
Hardacre, who are you?"
"Verney. I've just come."
"Verney? That's a great Harrow name. Are you any relation to the
explorer?"
"Nephew," said John, blushing.
"Ah--you ought to have been here last Speecher.[2] We cheered him, I can
tell you. And the song was sung: the one with his name in it."
"Yes," said John. Then he added nervously, "All the same, I don't know a
soul at Harrow."
Desmond smiled. The smile assured John that his name would secure him a
cordial welcome. Desmond added abruptly, "My name, Desmond, is a Harrow
name. My father, my grandfather, my uncles, and three brothers were
here. It does make a difference. What's your house?"
"The Manor," said John, proudly.
"Dirty Dick's!" Then, seeing consternation writ large upon John's face,
he added quickly, "We call _him_ Dirty Dick, you know; but the house
is--er--one of the oldest and biggest--er--houses." He continued
hurriedly: "I'm going into Damer's next term. Damer's is always
chock-a-block, you know."
"Why is Rutford called 'Dirty Dick'?" John asked nervously. "He doesn't
_look_ dirty."
"Oh, we've licked him into a sort of shape," said Desmond. "I _believe_
he toshes now--once a month or so."
"Toshes?"
"Tubs, you know. We call a tub a 'tosh.' When Dirty Dick came here he
was unclean. He told his form--oh! the cheek of it!--that in his filthy
mind one bath a week was plenty," unconsciously the boy mimicked the
thick, rasping tones--"two, luxury, and three--superfluity! After that
he was called Dirty Dick. There's another story. They say that years ago
he went to a Turkish bath, and after a rare good scraping the man who
was scraping him--nasty job that!--found something which Dirty Dick
recognized as a beastly flannel shirt he had lost when he was at the
'Varsity. But only the Fourth Form boys swallow _that_. Hullo! There's a
pal of mine. See you again."
He ran off gaily. John walked to the shop where straw hats were sold.
Here he met other new boys, who regarded him curiously, but said
nothing. John put on his hat, and gave Rutford's name to the young man
who waited on him. He had an absurd feeling that the young man would
say, "Oh yes--Dirty Dick's!" One very nice-looking pink-cheeked boy said
to another boy that he was at Damer's. John could have sworn that the
hatter's assistant regarded the pink youth with increased deference.
Why had Uncle John sent him to Dirty Dick's? He hurried out of the shop,
fuming. Then he remembered the hammerless gun. After all, the Manor had
been _the_ house once, and it might be _the_ house again.
By this time the boys were arriving. Groups were forming. Snatches of
chatter reached John's ears. "Yes, I shot a stag, a nine-pointer. My
governor is going to have it set up for me---- What? Walked up your
grouse with dogs! We drive ours---- I had some ripping cricket, made a
century in one match---- By Jove! Did you really?----"
John passed on. These were "bloods," tremendous swells, grown men with a
titillating flavour of the world about their distinguished persons.
A minute later he was staring disconsolately at a group of his fellows
just in front of Dir----of Rutford's side door. An impulse seized him to
turn and flee. What would Uncle John say to that? So he advanced. The
boys made way politely, asking no questions. As he passed through he
caught a few eager words. "I was hoping that the brute had gone. It _is_
a sickener, and no mistake!"
John ascended the battered, worn-out staircase, wondering who the
"brute" was. Perhaps a sort of Flashman. John knew his _Tom Brown_; but
some one had told him that bullying had ceased to be. Great emphasis had
been laid on the "brute," whoever he might be.
Upon the second-floor passage, he found his room and one of its tenants,
who nodded carelessly as John crossed the threshold.
"I'm Scaife," he said. "Are you the Lord, or the Commoner?" He laughed,
indicating a large portmanteau, labelled, "Lord Esme Kinloch."
"I'm Verney," said John.
"I've bagged the best bed," said Scaife, after a pause, "and I advise
you to bag the next best one, over there. It was mine last term."
"I don't see the beds," said John, staring about him.
Scaife pointed out what appeared to be three tall, narrow wardrobes. The
rest of the furniture included three much-battered washstands and chests
of drawers, four Windsor chairs, and a square table, covered with
innumerable inkstains and roughly-carved names.
"The beds let down," Scaife said, "and during the first school the maids
make them, and shut them up again. It is considered a joke to crawl into
another fellow's room at night, and shut him up. You find yourself
standing upon your head in the dark, choking. It is a joke--for the
other fellow."
"Did some one do that to you?" asked John.
"Yes; a big lout in the Third Fifth," Scaife smiled grimly.
"And what did you do?"
"I waited for him next day with a cricket stump. There was an awful row,
because I let him have it a bit too hard; but I've not been shut up
since. That bed is a beast. It collapses." He chuckled. "Young Kinloch
won't find it quite as soft as the ones at White Ladies. Well, like the
rest of us, he'll have to take Dirty Dick's as he finds it."
The bolt had fallen.
John asked in a quavering voice, "Then it _is_ called that?"
"Called what?"
"This house. Dirty Dick's!"
Scaife smiled cynically. He looked about a year older than John, but he
had the air and manners of a man of the world--so John thought. Also, he
was very good-looking, handsomer than Desmond, and in striking contrast
to that smiling, genial youth, being dark, almost swarthy of complexion,
with strongly-marked features and rather coarse hands and feet.
"Everybody here calls it Dirty Dick's," he replied curtly.
John stared helplessly.
"But," he muttered, "I heard, I was told, that the Manor was the best
house in the school."
"It used to be," Scaife answered. "To-day, it comes jolly near being the
worst. The fellows in other houses are decent; they don't rub it in;
but, between ourselves, the Manor has gone to pot ever since Dirty Dick
took hold of it. Damer's is the swell house now."
John began to unstrap his portmanteau. Scaife puzzled him. For instance,
he displayed no curiosity. He did not put the questions always asked at
a Preparatory School. Without turning his thought into words, John
divined that at Harrow it was bad form to ask questions. As he wanted to
ask a question, a very important question, this enforced silence became
exasperating.
Presently Scaife said, "I suppose you are one of the Claydon lot."
"No; my home is in the New Forest. My uncle is Verney of Verney
Boscobel."
"Oh! his name is on the panels at the head of the staircase; and it's
carved on a bed in the next room."
"Crikey! I must go and look at it."
"You can look at the panels, of course; but don't say 'Crikey!' and
don't go into the next room. Two Fifth Form fellows have it. It would be
infernal cheek."
John hoped that Scaife would offer to accompany him to the panels. Then
he went alone. It being now within half an hour of lock-up, the passages
were swarming with boys. Soon John would see them assembled in Hall,
where their names would be called over by Rutford. Everybody--John had
been told--was expected to be present at this first call-over, except a
few boys who might be coming from a distance. John worked his way along
the upper passage, and down the second flight of stairs till he came to
the first landing. Here, close to the house notice-board, were some oak
panels covered with names and dates, all carved--so John learned
later--by a famous Harrow character, Sam Hoare, once "Custos" of the
School. The boy glanced eagerly, ardently, up and down the panels. Ah,
yes, here was his father's name, and here--his uncle's. And then out of
the dull, finely-grained oak, shone other names familiar to all who love
the Hill and its traditions. John's heart grew warm again with pride in
the house that had held such men. The name of the great statesman and
below it a mighty warrior's made him thrill and tremble. They were _Old
Harrovians_, these fellows, men whom his uncle had known, men of whom
his dear mother, wise soul! had spoken a thousand times. The landing and
the passages were roaring with the life of the present moment. Boys, big
and small, were chaffing each other loudly. Under some circumstances,
this new-comer, a stranger, ignored entirely, might have felt desolate
and forlorn in the heart of such a crowd; but John was tingling with
delight and pleasure.
Suddenly, the noise moderated. John, looking up, saw a big fellow slowly
approaching, exchanging greetings with everybody. John turned to a boy
close to him.
"Who is it?" he whispered.
The other boy answered curtly, "Lawrence, the Head of the House."
The big fellow suddenly caught John's eyes. What he read
there--admiration, respect, envy--brought a slight smile to his lips.
"Your name?" he demanded.
"Verney."
Lawrence held out his hand, simply and yet with a certain dignity.
"I heard you were coming," he said, keenly examining John's face. "We
can't have too many Verneys. If I can do anything for you, let me know."
He nodded, and strode on. John saw that several boys were staring with a
new interest. None, however, spoke to him; and he returned to his room
with a blushing face. Scaife had unpacked his clothes and put them away;
he was now surveying the bare walls with undisguised contempt.
"Isn't this a beastly hole?" he remarked.
John, always interested in people rather than things, examined the room
carefully. Passing down the passage he had caught glimpses of other
rooms: some charmingly furnished, gay with chintz, embellished with
pictures, Japanese fans, silver cups, and other trophies. Comparing
these with his own apartment, John said shyly--
"It's not very beefy."
"Beefy? You smell of a private school, Verney. Now, is it worth doing
up? You see, I shall be in a two-room next term. If we all chip in----"
he paused.
"I've brought back two quid," said John.
Scaife's smile indicated neither approval nor the reverse. John's
ingenuous confidence provoked none in return.
"We'll talk about it when Kinloch arrives. I wonder why his people sent
him here."
John had studied some books, but not the Peerage. The great name of
Kinloch was new to him, not new to Scaife, who, for a boy, knew his
"Burke" too odiously well.
"Why shouldn't his people send him here?" he asked.
"Because," Scaife's tone was contemptuous, "because the
Kinlochs--they're a great cricketing family--go to Eton. The duke must
have some reason."
"The duke?"
"Hang it, surely you have heard of the Duke of Trent?"
"Yes," said John, humbly. "And this is his son?" He glanced at the label
on the new portmanteau.
"Whose son should he be?" said Scaife. "Well, it's queer. Dukes[3] and
dukes' sons come to Harrow--all the Hamiltons were here, and the
FitzRoys, and the St. Maurs--but the Kinlochs, as I say, have gone to
Eton. It's a rum thing--very. And why the deuce hasn't he turned up?"
The clanging of a bell brought both boys to their feet.
"Lock-up, and call-over," said Scaife. "Come on!"
They pushed their way down the passage. Several boys addressed Scaife.
"Hullo, Demon!--Here's the old Demon!--Demon, I thought you were going
to be sacked!"
To these and other sallies Scaife replied with his slightly ironical
smile. John perceived that his companion was popular and at the same
time peculiar; quite different from any boy he had yet met.
They filed into a big room--the dining-room of the house--a square,
lofty hall, with three long tables in it. On the walls hung some
portraits of famous Old Harrovians. As a room it was disappointing at
first sight, almost commonplace. But in it, John soon found out,
everything for weal or woe which concerned the Manor had taken place or
had been discussed. There were two fireplaces and two large doors. The
boys passed through one door; upon the threshold of the other stood the
butler, holding a silver salver, with a sheet of paper on it.
"What cheek!" murmured Scaife.
"Eh?" said John.
"Dirty Dick isn't here. Just like him, the slacker! And when he does
come over on our side of the House, he slimes about in carpet
slippers--the beast!"
Lawrence entered as Scaife spoke. John saw that his strongly-marked
eyebrows went up, when he perceived the butler. He approached, and took
the sheet of paper. The butler said impressively--
"Mr. Rutford is busy. Will you call over, sir?"
At any rate, the butler, Dumbleton, was worthy of the best traditions of
the Manor. He had a shrewd, clean-shaven face, and the deportment of an
archbishop. The Head of the House took the paper, and began to call
over the names. Each boy, as his name was called, said, "Here," or, if
he wished to be funny, "Here, _sir_!"
"Verney?"
The name rang out crisply.
"Here, _sir_," said John.
The Head of the House eyed him sharply.
"Kinloch?"
No answer.
"Kinloch?"
Scaife answered dryly: "Kinloch's portmanteau has come." Then Dumbleton
said in his smooth, bland voice, "His lordship is in the drawing-room
with Mr. Rutford."
The boys exchanged knowing glances. Scaife looked contemptuous. The next
moment the last name had been called, and the boys scurried into the
passages. Lawrence was the first to leave the hall. Impulsively, John
rushed up to him.
"I didn't mean to be funny, I didn't really," he panted.
"Quite right. It doesn't pay," Lawrence smiled grimly, "for new boys to
be funny. I saw you didn't mean it."
Lawrence spoke in a loud voice. John realized that he had so spoken
purposely, trying to wipe out a new boy's first blunder.
"Thanks awfully," said John.
He reached his room to find three other boys busily engaged in abusing
their house-master. They took no notice of John, who leaned against the
wall.
"His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. Rutford."
A freckle-faced, red-headed youth, with a big elastic mouth had imitated
Dumbleton admirably.
"What a snob Dick is!" drawled a very tall, very thin,
aristocratic-looking boy.
"And a fool," added Scaife. "This sort of thing makes him loathed."
"It _is_ a sell his being here."
All three fell to talking. The question still festering in John's mind
was answered within a minute. The "brute" was Rutford. Towards the end
of the previous term gossip had it that the master of the Manor had been
offered an appointment elsewhere. Whereat the worthier spirits in the
ancient house rejoiced. Now the joy was turned into wailing and gnashing
of teeth.
"Is he a beast to _us_?" said John.
The freckle-faced boy answered affably, "That depends. His Imperial
Highness"--he kicked the new portmanteau hard--"will not find Mr.
Richard Rutford a beast. Far from it. And he's civil to the Demon,
because his papa is a man of many shekels. But to mere outsiders, like
myself, a beast of beasts; ay, the very king of beasts, is--Dirty Dick."
And then--oh, horrors!--the door of No. 15 opened, and Rutford appeared,
followed by a seemingly young and very fashionably dressed lady. The
boys jumped to their feet. All, except Scaife, looked preternaturally
solemn. The house-master nodded carelessly.
"This is Scaife, Duchess," he said in his thick, rasping tones. "Scaife
and Verney, let me present you to the Duchess of Trent."
He mouthed the illustrious name, as if it were a large and ripe
greengage.
The duchess advanced, smiling graciously. "These"--Rutford named the
other boys--"are Egerton, Lovell, and--er--Duff."
Scaife, alone of those present, appreciated the order in which his
schoolfellows had been named. Egerton--known as the Caterpillar--was the
son of a Guardsman; Lovell's father was a judge; Duff's father an
obscure parson.
The duchess shook hands with each boy. "Your father and I are old
friends," she said to Egerton; "and I have had the pleasure of meeting
your uncle," she smiled at John.
Duff looked unhappy and ill at ease, because it was almost certain that
his last sentence had been overheard by the house-master. The duchess
asked a few questions and then took her leave. She and her son were
dining with the Head Master. Rutford accompanied her.
"Did the blighter hear?" said Duff.
"How could he help it with his enormous asses' ears?" said the tall,
thin Egerton.
Duff, an optimist, like all red-headed, freckled boys, appealed to the
others, each in turn. The verdict was unanimous.
"He hates me like poison," said Duff. "I shall catch it hot. What an
unlucky beggar I am!"
"Pooh!" said Scaife. "He knows jolly well that the whole school calls
him Dirty Dick."
But whatever hopes Duff may have entertained of his house-master's
deafness were speedily laid in the dust. Within five minutes Rutford
reappeared. He stood in the doorway, glaring.
"Just now, Duff," said he, "I happened to overhear your voice, which is
singularly, I may say vulgarly, penetrating. You were speaking of me,
your house-master, as 'Dick.' But you used an adjective before it. What
was it?"
Duff writhed. "I don't--remember."
"Oh yes, you do. Why lie, Duff?"
John's brown face grew pale.
"The adjective you used," continued Rutford, "was 'dirty.' You spoke of
_me_ as 'Dirty Dick,' and I fancy I caught the word 'beast.' You will
write out, if you please, one hundred Greek lines, accents and stops,
and bring them to me, or leave them with Dumbleton, _twenty-five_ lines
at a time, _every_ alternate half hour during the afternoon of the next
half holiday. Good night to you."
"Good night, sir," said all the boys, save John and Scaife.
"Good night, Verney."
Master and pupil confronted each other. John's face looked impassive;
and Rutford turned from the new boy to Scaife.
"Good night, Scaife."
Scaife drew himself up, and, in a quiet, cool voice, replied--
"Good night, sir."
Duff waited till Rutford's heavy step was no longer heard; then he
rushed at John.
"I say," he spluttered, "you're a good sort--ain't he, Demon? Refusing
to say 'Good night' to the beast because he was ragging me. But he'll
never forgive you--never!"
"Oh yes, he will," said Scaife. "It won't be difficult for Dirty Dick to
forgive the future Verney of Verney Boscobel."
John stared. "Verney Boscobel?" he repeated. "Why, that belongs to my
uncle. Mother and I hope he'll marry and have a lot of jolly kids of his
own."
"You hope he'll marry? Well, I'm----"
John's jaw stuck out. The emphasis on the "hope" and the upraised
eyebrow smote hard.
"You don't mean to say," he began hotly, "you don't _think_ that----"
"I can think what I please," said Scaife, curtly; "and so can you." He
laughed derisively. "_Thinking_ what they please is about the only
liberty allowed to new boys. Even the Duffer learned to hold his tongue
during his first term."
The Caterpillar--the tall, thin, aristocratic boy--spoke solemnly. He
was a dandy, the understudy--as John soon discovered--of one of the
"Bloods"; a "Junior Blood," or "Would-be," a tremendous authority on
"swagger," a stickler for tradition, who had been nearly three years in
the school.
"The Demon is right," said he. "A new boy can't be too careful, Verney.
Your being funny in hall just now made a dev'lish bad impression."
"But I didn't mean to be funny. I told Lawrence so directly after
call-over."
The Caterpillar pulled down his cuffs.
"If you didn't mean to be funny," he concluded, "you must be an ass."
Duff, however, remembered that John was nephew to an explorer.
"I say," he jogged John's elbow, "do you think you could get me your
uncle's autograph?"
"Why, of course," said John.
"Thanks. I've not a bad collection," the Duffer murmured modestly.
"And the gem of it," said Scaife, "is Billington's, the hangman! The
Duffer shivers whenever he looks at it."
"Yes, I do," said Duff, grinning horribly.
After supper and Prayers, John went to bed, but not to sleep for at
least an hour. He lay awake, thinking over the events of this memorable
day. Whenever he closed his eyes he beheld two objects: the spire of
Harrow Church and the vivid, laughing face of Desmond. He told himself
that he liked Desmond most awfully. And Scaife too, the Demon, had been
kind. But somehow John did not like Scaife. Then, in a curious
half-dreamy condition, not yet asleep and assuredly not quite awake, he
seemed to see the figure of Scaife expanding, assuming terrific
proportions, impending over Desmond, standing between him and the spire,
obscuring part of the spire at first, and then, bit by bit,
overshadowing the whole.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Byron, writing to John Murray, May 26, 1822, and giving directions
for the burial of poor little Allegra's body, says--
"I wish it to be buried in Harrow Church. There is a spot in the
churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards
Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or
Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours as a boy: this was my
favourite spot; but, as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body
had better be deposited in the church."
See also "Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard of Harrow," in
"Hours of Idleness."
[2] "Speecher"--_i.e._ Speech-Day. At Harrow "er" is a favourite
termination of many substantives. "Harder," for hard-ball racquets,
"Footer," "Ducker," etc.
[3] The Duke of Dorset was Byron's fag. _Cf._--
"Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command."
_Hours of Idleness._