When Forbes had finished there was general laughter and applause. The
whimsical idea of building a tale around the persons of the letter was
one which his playful mind was competent to develop, and he had written
a deft and amusing introduction. Taking “Joe” as his subject he had
sketched that gentleman's character with a touch of irony. He had made
him a Rhodes Scholar from Indiana (evoking good-natured protest from
Minters) and had carried him on a vacation to Guilford House, a small
hotel in London much frequented by Rhodes Scholars. There he had made
him meet Kathleen who, with her mother, was staying in London for a few
days. Forbes had a taste for brunettes, and in his description of the
imagined Kathleen he had indulged himself heartily. He found her to be
seventeen, slender, with that strong slimness that only an English girl
achieves; with a straight brown gaze and abundant dark chestnut hair.
She was captain of her school hockey team, it seemed; she was good at
tennis and swimming and geometry; she had small patience with poetry and
sentiment. But within the athletic and straightforward flapper Forbes
thought he saw the fluttering of deeper womanhood; the maiden soul
erecting a barrier of abrupt common sense about itself to conceal the
shy and sensitive feelings that were beginning to blossom. Such at any
rate was Kenneth Forbes's psycho-analysis, and he developed his chapter
toward a climax where Kathleen and Joe were left walking in Regent's
Park, and the next author would find some difficulty in knowing how to
proceed with the second instalment.
“Well done indeed!” cried Blair, as Forbes laid down his manuscript and
reached for his pipe. There was a general murmur of assent as the men
got up to stretch and talk. Someone punched the coals into flame, and
the bowl of fruit was passed round.
“Who's to write the next chapter?” asked Graham.
“Let Falstaff do it!” cried Blair. “He's the sentimentalist! But go easy
on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come from Indiana! Have
a heart!”
“Do whatever you like to Joe!” cried Forbes; “But be careful with
Kathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her and mail
it to her anonymously.”
“I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture,” said Keith.
“Her picture?” said Graham. “Nonsense! Why not see the flapper herself?
I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round till I find the
street, and then skid like hell right on to her doorstep. I shall lie
there in mute agony until I'm carried indoors.”
“I say, now, that's no fair!” cried Forbes. “I discovered her! Just
because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take an advantage!”
“Look here,” said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloud of
Murray's Mixture, “we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamus or a
lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal a march. I think
we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But we must give a bond to
start fair and square, and nobody do anything that isn't authorized by
the whole club.”
“Right-O!” cried several voices.
“All right, then,” said the Goblin, “fill glasses everyone, and we'll
solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit that we all,
jointly and severally, promise not to take any steps toward making the
acquaintance of said Kathleen until so authorized by the whole society.
So help me God!”
They all drank to this, with some chuckles.
“What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!” said
someone.
“Very likely Joe will have her here,” said Whitney. “You seem to forget
that he's been rowing this course for some time.”
They all scowled.
“I wonder how many members of the 'varsity are called Joe?” Keith asked.
“About three hundred, I dare say,” said Falstaff.
“I tell you what we might do,” said Forbes. “When the yarn's finished we
can send it to her, explain just how the whole thing happened, and ask
permission to call. She's got a sense of humour, I'll swear!”
“Balmy!” retorted Falstaff. “She'd probably be frightfully fed because
you bagged her letter! 'S a hell of a thing to do, crib a lady's
letter!”
“It's a hell of a thing to do to leave it lying around!” cried Forbes,
impenitent. “No quarter for Joebags! Let the punishment fit the crime.”
“Well, you chaps, I've got to sheer off,” said Whitney. “It's nearly
eleven and I've got an essay on the stocks. Cheer-o Priapus, I've had a
ripping time.”
“'Arf a mo,'” cried Forbes. “Who's to do the next chapter, and where do
we meet next week?”
“Falstaff!” cried several voices.
“Why not do two chapters a week,” said Carter. “I'll do one, and Goblin
can do another. Let's meet in my rooms.”
This was agreed to, and after much scuffling with greatcoats and scarves
the guests tramped off down the stairs and out into the rainy quad.
Forbes could hear them, a minute later, thundering with their heels on
the huge iron-studded college gate as they waited for the porter to let
them out. The room was foul with smoke, and he opened a window over
the gardens letting in a gush of chill sweet air and rain. Through the
darkness he could hear many chimes, counting eleven. He looked wearily
at the scribbled notes for his essay on Danton and Robespierre: then
shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.