_Kraipale_[13]
"Life is mostly froth and bubble;
Two things stand like stone--
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own."
Some five years afterwards John Verney learned what had passed between
Cabinet Minister and Head Master upon that eventful day which sent Caesar
to curse and swear upon the Sudbury road. The Head Master was not an
Harrovian, and on that account was the better able to perceive
time-honoured abuses. At Harrow the dominant chord among masters and
boys is a harmony of strenuousness and sentiment. Inevitably, the
sentiment becomes, at times, sentimental; and then strenuousness pushes
it into a corner. When honoured veterans are wearing out, loyalty,
gratitude for past service, reluctance to inflict pain, keep them in
positions of responsibility which mentally and physically they are unfit
to administer. It is almost as difficult to turn an Eton or Harrow
master out of his house, as to turn a parson of the Church of England
out of his pulpit. More, in selecting a house-master as in selecting a
parson, a man's claims to preferment are too often determined by
scholarship, by length of former service, by interest with authority,
rather than by ability to govern a body of boys made up of widely
different parts. A capable form-master may prove an incapable
house-master. Richard Rutford, to give a concrete example, came to
Harrow knowing nothing about Public Schools, and caring as little for
the traditions of the Hill, but with the prestige of being a Senior
Classic. Nobody questioned his ability to teach Greek. In his own line,
and not an inch beyond, the Governors were assured that Rutford was a
success. In due time he accepted a Small House, so small that its
autocrat's incapacity as an administrator escaped notice. Rutford waited
patiently for a big morsel. He wrote a couple of text-books; he married
a wife with money and influence; he entertained handsomely. It is true
he became popular neither with masters nor boys, but his wine was as
sound as his scholarship, and his wife had a peer for a second cousin.
Eventually he accepted the Manor. Within a month, those in authority
suspected that a blunder had been made; within a year they knew it. The
house began to go down. Leaven lay in the lump, but not enough to make
it rise, because the baker refused to stir the dough. First and last,
Rutford disliked boys, misunderstood them, insulted them, ignored those
who lacked influential connections, toadied and pampered the "swells."
Just before John Verney came to Harrow, the Manor was showing
unmistakable signs of decay. A new Head Master, recognizing "dry-rot,"
realizing the necessity of cutting it out, was confronted with that
bristling obstacle--Tradition. He possessed enough moral courage to have
told Rutford to resign, because in a thousand indescribable ways the man
had neglected his duty; but, so said the Tories, such a step might
provoke a public scandal, and if Rutford refused to go--what then?
Nothing definite could be proved against the man. His sins had been of
omission. Dismayed, not defeated, the Head Master considered other
methods of regenerating the Manor. Very quietly he made his appeal to
the Old Harrovians, many of whom were sending their sons and nephews to
other houses. He invited co-operation. John Verney, the Rev. Septimus
Duff, Colonel Egerton--half a dozen enthusiastic Manorites--stepped
forward. Lastly, for Charles Desmond the Head Master baited his hook.
"The reform which we have at heart," said he, "must come from within
and from below. The house wants a Desmond in it. I was not allowed to
wield the axe; but, after all, there are more modern methods of
decapitation. And, believe me, I am not asking any man more than I am
prepared to do myself. My own nephew goes to the Manor after next
holidays."
"Um!" said Mr. Desmond, stroking his chin.
"Lawrence, the Head of the House, is a tower of strength, like all the
Lawrences."
"How did you beguile the Duke of Trent?"
"Fortune gave me that weapon. The duke"--he laughed genially----
"Yes?"
"Will turn scales which my heaviest arguments won't budge. A bit of
luck! The duke wanted to send his son, a delicate lad, to Harrow, and I
did mention to him that Rutford had a vacancy."
"O Ulysses! And Scaife? How did you handle that large bale of
bank-notes?"
"Rutford captured Scaife."
"Handsome boy--his son. Lunched with us this morning. Well, well, you
have persuaded me. But what an unpleasant quarter of an hour I shall
have with Harry!"
* * * * *
As a new boy, John slaved at "footer," and displayed a curious
inaptitude for squash racquets. At all games Caesar and Scaife were
precociously proficient. John's clumsiness annoyed them. Often the
Caterpillar joined him and Fluff, giving them to understand that this
must be regarded as an act of grace and condescension which might be
suitably acknowledged at the Tudor Creameries.
The Caterpillar mightily impressed the two small boys. He had acquired
his nick-name from the very leisurely pace at which he advanced up the
school. He wore "Charity tails," as they were called, the swallow-tail
coat of the Upper School mercifully given to boys of the Lower School
who are too tall to wear with decency the short Eton jacket; he
possessed a trouser-press; and his "bags" were perfectly creased and
quite spotless. From tip to toe, at all seasons and in all weathers, he
looked conspicuously spick and span. Chaff provoked the solemn retort:
"One should be well groomed." He spoke impersonally, considering it bad
form to use for first person singular. Amongst the small boys he ranked
as the Petronius of the Lower School.
One day the Caterpillar said grandiloquently, "You kids will oblige me
by not shouting and yelling when you speak to me. I've a bit of a head."
"What's wrong with it?" said Fluff.
"It looks splendid _outside_," said John, in his serious voice.
The Caterpillar, detecting no cheek, answered gravely--
"Some of us had a wet night of it, last night."
"Wet?" exclaimed the innocent Fluff. "Why, all the stars were shining."
"Your brothers at Eton know what a 'wet night' means," said the
Caterpillar. "I was talking with one of the Fifth, when a fellow came in
with a flask. A gentleman ought to be able to carry a few glasses of
wine, but one is not accustomed to spirits."
"Spirits?"
"Whisky, not prussic acid, you know."
"But where do they get the whisky?" demanded John.
"Comparing it with my father's old Scotch, I should say at the
grocer's," replied the Caterpillar. "There's some drinking going on in
our house, and--and other things. One mentions it to you kids as a
warning."
"Thanks," said John.
"Not at all; you're rather decent little beggars. They" (the Fifth Form
was indicated), "they've let you alone so far, but you may have trouble
next term, so look out! And if you want advice, come to me."
Beneath his absurd pompous manner beat a kindly heart, and the small
boys divined this and were grateful. None the less the word "spirits"
frightened them. Next day John happened to find himself alone with
Caesar. Very nervously he asked the question--
"I say, do any of the big fellows at Damer's drink?"
"Drink? Drink--what?"
"Well, spirits."
Caesar snorted an indignant denial. The fellows at Damer's were above
that sort of thing. The house prided itself upon its tone. Tone
constituted Damer's glory, and was the secret of its success. John
nodded, but two days afterwards the Demon took him by the arm, twisted
it sharply, and said--
"What the deuce did you mean by telling Caesar that the Manorites drink?"
"Oh, Scaife--I didn't."
"You gave us away."
"_Us?_" John's eyes opened. "_You_ don't drink with 'em?" he faltered.
"Don't bother your head about what I do, or don't do." Scaife answered
roughly; "and because you took the Lower Remove don't think for an
instant that you are on a par with Caesar and me, or even the old
Caterpillar--for you ain't."
"I know that," said John, humbly.
"Don't forget it, or there may be ructions."
"I shan't forget it."
"That's right. And, by the way, you're getting into the habit of hanging
about Caesar, which bores him to death. Stop it."
But to this John made no reply. He read dislike in Scaife's bold eyes,
detected it in his clear, peremptory voice, felt it in the cruel twist
of the arm. And he had brains enough to know that Scaife was not the boy
to dislike any one without reason. John crawled to the conclusion that
Scaife had become jealous of his increasing intimacy with Desmond.
However, when the three boys were preparing their Greek for First
School, Scaife seemed his old self, friendly, amusing, and cool as a
cucumber. Long ago he had initiated John into Manorite methods of work.
"Our object is," he explained to the new boy, "to get through the 'swat'
with as little squandering of valuable time as possible. It doesn't pay
to be skewed. We must mug up our 'cons' well enough to scrape along
without 'puns' and extra school."
The three co-operated. Out of forty lines of Vergil, Scaife would be
fifteen, John fifteen, and the Caterpillar ten; _ten_, because, as he
pointed out, he had been nearly three years in the school. Then each
fellow in turn construed his lines for the benefit of the others. A
difficult passage was taken by Scaife to a clever friend in the Fifth.
Sometimes Scaife would be absent twenty minutes, returning flushed of
face, and slightly excited. John wondered if he had been drinking, and
wondered also what Caesar would say if he knew. About this time fear
possessed his soul that Caesar would come into the Manor and be taught by
Scaife to drink. An occasional nightmare took the form of a desperate
struggle between himself and Scaife, in which Scaife, by virtue of
superior strength and skill, had the mastery, dragging off the beloved
Caesar, to plunge with him into fathomless pools of Scotch whisky.
Somehow in these horrid dreams, Caesar played an impressive part. Scaife
and John fought for his body, while he looked on, an absurd state of
affairs, never--as John reflected in his waking hours--likely to happen
in real life. Of all boys Caesar seemed to be the best equipped to fight
his own battles, and to take, as he would have put it, "jolly good care
of himself."
After the first of the football house-matches, Scaife got his "fez" from
Lawrence, the captain of the House Eleven, and the only member of the
School Eleven in Dirty Dick's. Some of the big fellows in the Fifth
seized this opportunity to "celebrate," as they called it. Scaife was
popular with the Fifth because--as John discovered later--he cheerfully
lent money to some of them and never pressed for repayment. And
Scaife's getting his "fez" before he was fifteen might be reckoned an
achievement. Caesar, in particular, could talk of nothing else. He
predicted that the Demon would be Captain of both Elevens, school
racquet-player, and bloom into a second C. B. Fry.
John, upon this eventful evening, soon became aware of a shindy. It
happened that Rutford was giving a dinner-party, and extremely unlikely
to leave the private side of the house. John heard snatches of song,
howls, and cheers. Ordinarily Lawrence (in whose passage the shindy was
taking place) would have stopped this hullabaloo; but Lawrence was
dining with his house-master, and Trieve, an undersized, weakly
stripling, lacked the moral courage to interfere. John was getting a
"con" from Trieve when an unusually piercing howl penetrated the august
seclusion.
"What _are_ they doing?" asked Trieve, irritably.
John hesitated. "It's the Fifth," he blurted out. "They've got Scaife in
there, you know."
"Oh, indeed! Scaife is an excuse, is he, for this fiendish row? Go and
tell Scaife I want to see him."
John looked rather frightened. He felt like a spaniel about to retrieve
a lion. And scurrying along the passage he ran headlong into the Duffer,
to whom he explained his errand.
"Phew-w-w!" said that young gentleman. "I'd sooner it was you than me,
Verney. They're pretty well ginned-up, I can tell you."
John tapped timidly at the door of the room whence the songs and
laughter proceeded. Then he tapped again, and again. Finally, summoning
his courage, he rapped hard. Instantly there was silence, and then a
furtive rustling of papers, followed by a constrained "Come in!"
John entered.
Most of the boys--there were about six of them--gazed at him in
stupefaction. Scaife, very red in the face, burst into shrill shouts of
laughter. Somehow the laughter disconcerted John. He forgot to deliver
his message, but stood staring at Scaife, quaking with a young boy's
terror of the unknown. Upon the table were some siphons, syrups, and the
remains of a "spread."
"What the blazes do you want?" said Lovell, the owner of the room.
"I want Scaife," said John. "I mean that Trieve wants Scaife."
"Oh, Miss Trieve wants Master Scaife, does she? Well, young 'un, you
tell Trieve, with my compliments, that Scaife can't come. See? Now--hook
it!"
But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's dishevelled appearance, his
wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed another Scaife.
"You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered.
"Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite
unlike his usual cool, quiet tone. "Wait a mo'--I'm not Trieve's fag.
I'm nobody's fag now, am I?"
He appealed to the crowd. It was an unwritten rule at the Manor that
members of the House cricket or football Elevens were exempt from
fagging. But the common law of fagging at Harrow holds that any lower
boy is bound to obey the Monitors, provided such obedience is not
contrary to the rules of the school. In practice, however, no boy is
fagged outside his own house, except for cricket-fagging in the summer
term.
"Fag? Not you? Tell Miss Trieve to mind her own business."
John departed, feeling that an older and wiser boy might have tact to
cope with this situation. For him, no course of action presented itself
except delivering what amounted to a declaration of war.
"Won't come? Is he mad?"
"'Can't come,' they said."
"Oh, can't come? Has he hurt himself--sprained anything?"
John was truthful (more of a habit than some people believe). He told
the truth, just as some boys quibble and prevaricate, simply and
naturally. But now, he hesitated. If he hinted--a hint would
suffice--that Scaife had hurt himself--and what more likely after the
furious bit of playing which had secured his "fez"?--Trieve, probably,
would do nothing. John felt in his bones that Trieve would be glad of an
excuse to do--nothing.
"No; he hasn't sprained himself."
"Then why don't he come?"
"I--I----" Then he burst into excited speech. "He looks as if he _was_ a
little mad. Oh, Trieve, won't you leave him alone? Please do! They must
stop before prayers, and then Lawrence will be here."
O unhappy John--thou art not a diplomatist! Why lug in Lawrence, who has
inspired mordant jealousy and envy in the heart of his second in
command?
"Tell Scaife to come here at once," said Trieve, eyeing a couple of
canes in the corner. "And if he should happen to ask what I want him
for, say that I mean to whop him."
John fled.
"Whop him?"
The Fifth howled rage and remonstrance. Scaife fiercely announced his
intention of not taking a whopping from Trieve. None the less, the
announcement had a sobering effect upon the elder boys. The consequence
of a refusal must prove serious. Sooner or later Scaife would be
whopped, probably by Lawrence, no ha'penny matter that!
"You'd better go, Demon," said Lovell. "Trieve can't hurt you. I'd speak
to the idiot, only he hates me so poisonously, just as I hate him."
"I'll go," said the Caterpillar.
John had not noticed the Caterpillar before. He stood up, spick and
span, carefully adjusting his coat, pulling down his immaculate cuffs.
"Good old Caterpillar," said somebody. "By Jove, he really thinks that
Trieve will listen to--him!"
"Any one who has been nearly three years in this house," said the
Caterpillar, "has the right to tell Miss Trieve that she is--er--not
behaving like a lady."
"And he'll tell you you're screwed, you old fool."
"I am not screwed," replied the Caterpillar, solemnly. "Whisky and
potass does not agree with everybody; but I am not screwed, not at all."
So speaking he sat down rather suddenly.
Lovell shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the Caterpillar and Scaife,
and left the room. Within two minutes he returned, chapfallen and
frowning.
"I knew it would be useless. Look here, Demon, you must grin and bear
it."
"No," said Scaife, "not from Miss Trieve."
He laughed as before. The Fifth exchanged glances. Then Scaife said
thickly, "Give me another drink, I want a drink; so does young Verney.
Look at him!"
John was white about the gills and trembling, but not for himself.
"Do go, Scaife!" he entreated.
The Fifth formed a group; holding a council of war, engrossed in trying
to find a way out of a wood which of a sudden had turned into a tangled
thicket. And so what each would have strenuously prevented came to pass.
Scaife pulled a bottle from under a sofa-cushion, and put it to his
lips--John, standing at the door, could not see what was taking place.
When the bottle was torn from Scaife's hands, the mischief had been
done. The boy had swallowed a quantity of raw spirit. Till now the
whisky had been much diluted with mineral water.
"I'm going to him," yelled Scaife, struggling with his friends. "And I'm
going to take a cricket stump with me. Le'me go--le'me go!"
The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust. After a brief struggle Scaife
succumbed, helpless and senseless.
"One is reminded sometimes," said the Caterpillar, solemnly, "that the
poor Demon is the son of a Liverpool merchant, bred in or about the
Docks."
Nobody, however, paid any attention to Egerton, who, to do him justice,
was the only boy present absolutely unmindful of his own peril.
Expulsion loomed imminent. The window was flung wide open, eau de
Cologne liberally applied. Scaife lay like a log.
And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve walked in.
"Scaife has had a sort of fit," explained an accomplished liar. "You
know what his temper is, Trieve? And when he heard that you meant to
'whop' him, he went stark, staring mad."
This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve accepted it, probably
with mental reservations.
"You had better send for Mrs. Puttick," he replied coldly.
The Caterpillar was despatched for the matron; but before that worthy
woman panted upstairs, Scaife had been carried to his own room, hastily
undressed and put into bed, where he lay breathing stertorously. The
matron, good, easy soul, accepted the boys' story unhesitatingly. A fit,
of course, poor dear child! Mr. Rutford must be summoned.
With the optimism of youth, those present began to hope that dust might
be thrown into the eyes of Dirty Dick. And, with a little discreet
delay, the Demon might recover, when he could be relied upon to play his
part with adroitness and ability. Accordingly, the matron was urged to
try her ministering hand first, amid the chaff, which, even in
emergencies, slips so easily out of boys' mouths.
"Mrs. Puttick, you're better than any doctor--Scaife is all right,
_really_. We knew that he was subject to fits--Rather! Some one was
telling me that one of his aunts died in a fit"--"Shut up, you silly
fool," this in a whisper, emphasized by a kick; "do you want to send her
out of this with a hornets' nest tied to her back hair?--That's a lie,
Mrs. Puttick. He's humbugging you. Scaife told me that his fits were
nothing. Yes; he had a slight sun-stroke when he was a kid, you know,
and the least bit of excitement affects him."
"Perhaps I'd better fetch a drop of brandy," said Mrs. Puttick, staring
anxiously at Scaife. "He looks very bad."
"Yes, please do, Mrs. Puttick."
She bustled away.
"Now we _must_ bring him to," said the Fifth Form.
Everything was tried, even to the expedient of flicking Scaife's body
with a wet towel; but the body lay motionless, his face horribly red
against the white pillow, his heavy breathing growing more laboured and
louder. And despite the perfume of the eau de Cologne which had drenched
pillow and pyjamas, the smell of whisky spread terror to the crowd. If
Rutford came in, he would swoop on the truth.
"We'll souse the brandy all over him," said the Caterpillar; "and then
no one can guess."
"How about burnt feathers?" suggested Lovell. He had seen a fainting
housemaid treated with this family restorative.
Mrs. Puttick appeared with the brandy, which Lovell administered
externally. Still, Scaife remained unconscious. Then a pillow was ripped
open, and enough feathers burned to restore--as the Caterpillar put it
afterwards--a ruined cathedral. The stench filled the passage and
brought to No. 15 a chattering crowd of Lower Boys. And then the
conviction seized everybody that Scaife was going to die.
"Make way, make way, please!"
It was Rutford, who, followed by Lawrence, strode down the passage into
No. 15, and up to the bed.
"If you please, sir," said Lovell, "Scaife has had a fit."
"It looks like a fit," said Rutford, gravely. "I have telephoned for the
doctor. You've tried," he sniffed the air, "all the wrong remedies, of
course. Feathers--phaugh!--perfume--brandy! The boy must be propped up
and the blood drawn from his head by applying hot water to his feet."
The Fifth exchanged glances. Why had this not occurred to them? What a
fool Mrs. Puttick was!
"A rush of blood to the head!" Rutford liked to hold forth, and he had
been told that he was a capital after-dinner speaker. He had just risen
from an excellent dinner; he was not much alarmed; and his audience
listened with flattering attention. Scaife was lifted into a chair; ice
was applied to his head; his feet were thrust into a "tosh" filled with
steaming water.
"Note the effect," said Rutford. Already a slight change might be
perceived; the breathing became easier, the face less red. Rutford
continued in his best manner: "Mark the _vis medicatrix naturae_. Nature,
assisted by hot water, gently accomplishes her task. Very simple, and
not one of you had the wit to think of a remedy close at hand, and so
easy to administer. The breathing is becoming normal. In a few minutes I
predict that we shall have the satisfaction of seeing the poor dear
fellow open his eyes, and he will tell us that he is but little the
worse. Yes, yes, a rush of blood to the head producing cerebral
disturbance."
He smiled blandly, receiving the homage of the Fifth.
"And now, Lovell, what do you know about this? Did this fit take place
here?"
"In my room, sir."
"In your room--eh? What was Scaife, a Lower Boy, doing in your room?"
"Lawrence gave him his 'fez' to-day, sir."
Lawrence nodded.
"Ah! And Scaife was excited, perhaps unduly excited--eh?"
The Fifth joined in a chorus of, "Yes, sir--Oh, yes, sir--awfully
excited, sir--never saw a boy so excited, sir."
"That will do. Now, Lovell, go on!"
"We had some siphons in our room, sir." A stroke of genius this--for the
siphons were still on the table and the syrups, and the _debris_ of
cakes and meringues. Rutford would be sure to examine the scene of the
catastrophe; and the whisky bottle was carefully hidden. "We were having
a spread, sir, and we asked Scaife to join us. His play to-day made him
one of us."
The other boys gazed admiringly at Lovell. What a cool, knowing hand!
"Yes, yes, I see nothing objectionable about that."
"Well, sir--we were rather noisy----"
"Go on."
"To speak the exact truth, sir, I fear we were _very_ noisy; and Trieve,
it seems, heard us. Instead of sending for me, sir, he sent Verney for
Scaife----"
"Ah!"
Lovell's hesitation at this point was really worthy of Coquelin _cadet_.
"Of course you know, sir, that Scaife's getting his 'fez' releases him
from house-fagging. We thought Trieve had forgotten that, sir; and that
it would be rather fun--I'm not excusing myself, sir--we thought it
would be a harmless joke if we persuaded Scaife not to go."
"Um!"
"We were very foolish, sir. And then Trieve sent another message saying
that Scaife was to go to his room at once to be--whopped."
"To be whopped. Um! Rather drastic that, very drastic under the
circumstances."
"So we thought, sir; and I went to represent the facts to Trieve----"
"Well?"
"I'm not much of a peacemaker, I fear, sir. Trieve refused to listen to
me. He insisted upon whopping Scaife for what he called disobedience and
impudence. Upon my honour, sir, I tried, we all tried, to persuade
Scaife to take his whopping quietly, but he seemed to go quite mad. He
has a violent temper, sir----"
"Yes, yes."
"A very violent temper. He--he----"
"Frothed at the mouth," put in a bystander. "I particularly noticed
that."
"Really, really----"
"Yes," said Lovell, nodding his head reflectively. "He frothed at the
mouth, and then----"
"Grew quite black in the face," interpolated a third boy, who was
determined that Lovell should not carry off all the honours.
"I should say--purple," amended Lovell. "And then he gave----"
"A beastly gurgle----"
"A sort of snort, and fell flat on his face. I'm not sure that he didn't
strike the edge of the table as he fell."
"He did," said one of the boys. "I saw that."
At this moment Scaife moved in his chair, drawing all eyes to his face.
John, peering from behind the circle of big boys, could see the first
signs of returning consciousness, a flicker of the eyelids, a convulsive
tremor of the limbs. Rutford bent down.
"Well, my dear Scaife, how are you? We've been a little anxious, all of
us, but, I ventured to predict, without cause. Tell us, my poor boy, how
do you feel?"
Scaife opened his eyes. Then he groaned dismally. Rutford was standing
to the right of the chair and foot-bath. The Fifth were facing Scaife.
He met their anxious, admonishing glances, unable to interpret them.
Lovell senior repeated the house-master's question--
"How are you, old chap?"
But, in his anxiety to convey a warning, he came too near, obscuring
Rutford's massive figure. Scaife groaned again, putting his hand to his
head.
"How am I?" he repeated thickly. "Why, why, I'm jolly well screwed,
Lovell; that's how I am! Jolly well screwed--hay? Ugh! how screwed I am.
Ugh!"
The groans fell on a terrifying silence. Rutford glanced keenly from
face to face. Then he said slowly--
"The wretched boy is--_drunk_!"
At the sound of his house-master's voice, Scaife relapsed into an
insensibility which no one at the moment cared to pronounce counterfeit
or genuine. Rutford glared at Lovell.
"Who was in your room, Lovell?"
Without waiting for Lovell to answer, the other boys, each in turn,
said, "I, sir," or "Me, sir." John came last.
"Anybody else, Lovell?"
A discreet master would not have asked this question, but Dirty Dick was
the last man to waive an advantage. Now, the Caterpillar had quietly
left No. 15, as soon as Rutford entered it. Not from any cowardly
motive, but--as he put it afterwards--"because one makes a point of
retiring whenever a rank outsider appears. One ought to be particular
about the company one keeps." It says something for the boy's character,
that this statement was accepted by the house as unvarnished truth.
Lovell glanced at the other Fifth Form boys, as Rutford repeated the
question.
"Anybody else, Lovell? Be careful how you answer me!"
"Nobody else," said Lovell.
"On your honour, sir?"
"On my honour, sir."
And, later, all Manorites declared that Lovell had lied like a
gentleman. Rutford and he stared at each other, the boy pale, but
self-possessed, the big, burly man flushed and ill at ease.
"You will all go to my study. A word with you, Lawrence."
The boys filed quietly out. Rutford looked at John and Fluff. Large, fat
tears were trickling down Fluff's cheeks. Somehow he felt convinced
that John was involved in a frightful row.
"Run away, Kinloch," said his house-master. "I wish to speak with
Lawrence and Verney."
He turned to Lawrence as he spoke. John glanced at Scaife. His eyes were
open. Silently, Scaife placed a trembling finger upon his lips. The
action, the expression in the eyes, were unmistakable. John understood,
as plainly as if Scaife had spoken, that silence, where expulsion
impended, was not only expedient but imperative. Kinloch crept out of
the room. Rutford examined Scaife, who feigned insensibility. Then he
addressed Lawrence.
"Go to Lovell's room, Lawrence, and institute a thorough search. If you
find wine or spirits, let me know at once."
Lawrence left the room.
"Now, Verney, I am going to ask you a few questions." He assumed his
rasping, truculent tone. "And don't you dare to tell me lies, sir!"
John was about to repudiate warmly his house-master's brutal injunction,
when the habit of thinking before he spoke closed his half-opened lips.
Immediately, his face assumed the obstinate, expressionless look which
made those who searched no deeper than the surface pronounce him a dull
boy. Rutford, for instance, interpreted this stolidity as unintelligence
and lack of perception. John, meantime, was struggling with a thought
which shaped itself slowly into a plan of action. He had just heard
Lovell lie to save the Caterpillar. John knew well enough that he might
be called upon to lie also, to save not himself, but Scaife. If he held
his tongue and refused to answer questions, Rutford would assume, and
with reason, that Scaife had been made drunk by the Fifth Form fellows.
Then John said quietly, "I am not a liar, sir."
"Certainly, I have never detected you in a lie," said Rutford.
"All the same," continued John, in a hesitating manner, "I _would_ lie,
if I thought a lie might save a friend's life."
Rutford was so unprepared for this deliberate statement, that he could
only reply--
"Oh, you would, would you?"
"Yes," said John; then he added, "Any decent boy or man would."
"Oh! Oh, indeed! This is very interesting. Go on, Verney."
"Scaife said he _felt_ as if he was jolly well screwed, sir; but he
isn't. I'm quite sure he isn't. He may feel like it; but he isn't."
John could see Scaife's eyes, slightly blood-shot, but sparkling with a
sort of diabolical sobriety. At that moment, one thing alone seemed
certain, Scaife had regained full possession of his faculties. Rutford
stared at John, frowning.
"You dare to look me in the face and tell me that Scaife is not drunk?"
Very seriously, John answered, "I'm sure he's not drunk, sir."
Rutford eyed the boy keenly.
"Have you ever seen anybody drunk?" he demanded.
"I live in the New Forest," said John, as gravely as before, "and on
Whit-Monday----" He was aware that he had made an impression upon this
big, truculent man.
"Don't try to be funny with me, Verney."
"On no, sir, as if I should dare!"
"Well, well, we are wasting time. Trieve sent you to Lovell's room to
fetch Scaife?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what was Scaife doing when you went into the room? Be very
careful!"
John considered. "He was laughing, sir."
"Laughing, was he?"
"But he stopped laughing when I gave him Trieve's message, and then he
said what Lovell told you, sir."
"Never mind what Lovell told me. Give me your version of the story."
"Scaife asked the other fellows if Trieve had any right to fag him, now
that he had got his 'fez.' If he had been drunk, sir, he wouldn't have
thought of that, would he?"
"Um," said Rutford, slightly shaken. John described his return to
Trieve's room, and Trieve's threat.
"Lovell and you tell the same story."
"Why, yes, sir." John made no deliberate attempt to look simple; but his
face, to the master studying it, seemed quite guileless.
Just then, Dumbleton ushered in the doctor. To him Rutford recited what
he knew and what he suspected. He had hardly finished speaking, when
Scaife opened his eyes for the second time. By a curious coincidence,
the doctor used the words of the house-master.
"Well, sir, how do you feel?"
And then Scaife answered, in the same dazed fashion as before--
"I feel as if I was jolly well screwed, sir."
Rutford nodded portentously.
"I feel," continued Scaife, "as I did once long ago, when I was a kid
and got hold of some curacoa at one of my father's parties."
"Just so," said the doctor.
"Same buzzing in the head, same beastly feeling, same--same old--same
old--giddiness." He closed his eyes, and his head fell heavily upon his
chest.
"It looks like concussion," said the doctor, doubtfully. "You say he
fell?" He turned to John.
"I was just outside the door," said John.
"We'll put him into the sick-room, Mr. Rutford. And in a day or two
he'll be himself again."
"Are you sure that what I--er--feared--er----?"
The doctor frowned. "The boy has had brandy, of course."
"Mrs. Puttick and Lovell gave him plenty of that," John interpolated.
"I believe you can exonerate the boy entirely," said the doctor.
John saw that Rutford seemed relieved.
"I have ordered Lovell's room to be searched. If no wine or spirits are
found, I shall be glad to believe that I have made a very pardonable
mistake."
While Scaife was being removed, Lawrence came in with his report.
Nothing alcoholic had been discovered in Lovell's room. After prayers,
which were late that night, Dirty Dick made a short speech.
"I had reason to suspect," said he, "that a gross breach of the rules of
the school had been made to-night by certain boys in this house. It
appears I was mistaken. No more will be said on the subject by me; and I
think that the less said by you, big and small, the better. Good night."
He strode away into the private side.
Two days later, Scaife came back to No. 15. John wondered why he stared
at him so hard upon the first occasion when they happened to be alone.
Then Scaife said--
"Well, young Verney, I shan't forget that, if it hadn't been for you, I
should have been sacked. And I shan't forget either that you're not half
such a fool as you look."
John exhibited surprise.
"The way you handled the beast," continued Scaife, "was masterly. I
heard every word, though my head was bursting. I shall tell Lovell that
you saved us. Oh, Lord--didn't I give the show away?"
He never tried to read the perplexity upon the other's face, but went
away laughing. He came back with the Caterpillar half an hour later, and
the three boys sat down as usual to prepare some Livy. John was sensible
that his companions treated him not only as an equal--a new and
agreeable experience--but as a friend. In the course of the first ten
minutes Scaife said to the Caterpillar--
"He told Dick to his face that he would lie to save a pal."
And the Caterpillar replied seriously, "Good kid, very good kid. Lovell
says he's going to give a tea in his honour."
"No, he isn't. It's my turn."
Accordingly, upon the next half-holiday, Scaife gave a tea at the
Creameries. Of all the strange things that had happened during the past
fortnight, this to our simple John seemed the strangest. He was not
conscious of having done or said anything to justify the esteem and
consideration in which Scaife, the Caterpillar, and Lovell seemed to
hold him.
"You've forgotten Desmond," he said to Scaife, when the latter mentioned
the names of his guests.
"Caesar isn't coming. By the way, Verney, you've not been talking to
Caesar about the row in our house?"
"No," said John. "Lawrence came round and said that I must keep my mouth
shut."
"And naturally you did what you were told to do?"
The half-mocking tone disappeared in a burst of laughter as John
answered--
"Yes, of course."
"And I suppose it never entered your head that Lawrence would not have
been so particular about shutting your mouth without good reason."
"Perhaps," said John, after a pause, "Lawrence was in a funk lest,
lest----"
"Go on!"
"Lest the thing should be exaggerated."
"Exactly. Lots of fellows would go about saying that I was dead
drunk--eh?"
"They might."
"And that would be coming dangerously near the truth."
"Oh, Scaife! Then you really _were_----"
Scaife laughed again. "Yes, I really was, my Moses in the bulrushes!
Don't look so miserable. I guessed all along that you weren't _quite_ in
the know. Well, I'm every bit as grateful. You stood up to Dick like a
hero. And my tea is in your honour."
"Oh, Scaife--you--you won't do it again?"
"Get screwed?" said Scaife, gravely. "I shall not. It isn't good enough.
We've chucked the stuff away."
"If they'd found it----"
"Ah--if! The old Caterpillar attended to that. He's a downy bird, I can
tell you. When Dick came into our room, he slipped back to Lovell's
room, carried off the whisky, hid it, washed the glasses, and then
dirtied them with siphon and syrup. The Caterpillar and you showed great
head. We shall drink your healths to-morrow--in tea and chocolate."
John wondered what Scaife had said to the Fifth. At any rate, they asked
John no questions, and treated him with distinguished courtesy and
favour; but that evening, when John was fagging in Lawrence's room, the
great man said abruptly--
"I saw you walking with Lovell senior this afternoon."
John explained. Lawrence frowned.
"Oh, you've been celebrating, have you? Thanksgiving service at the
Creameries. Now, look here, Verney, I've met your uncle, and he asked me
to keep an eye on you. Because of that I made you my fag--you, a green
hand, when I had the pick of the House."
"It was awfully good of you," said John, warmly.
"We'll sink that. I'm five years older than you, and I know every
blessed--and _cursed_"--he spoke with great emphasis--"thing that goes
on in this house. I know, for instance, that dust was thrown, and very
cleverly thrown, into Rutford's eyes, and you helped to throw it. Don't
speak! You didn't quite know what you were up to. Well, it's lucky for
Lovell and Co. that one innocent kid was mixed up in that affair. But
it's been rather unlucky for you. I'd sooner see you kicked about a bit
by those fellows than petted. I'm sorry--sorry, do you hear?--the whole
lot were not sacked. And now you can hook it. I've said enough, perhaps
too much, but I believe I can trust you."
After this John showed his gratitude by painstaking attention to
fagging. Lawrence became aware of faithful service: that his toast was
always done to a turn, that his daily paper was warmed, as John had seen
the butler at home warm the _Times_, that his pens were changed, his
blotting-paper renewed, and so forth. In John's eyes, Lawrence occupied
a position near the apex of the world's pyramid of great men.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] {kraipale} is translated by Liddell and Scott as "the result of a
debauch."