Friday the fifteenth of March was the last day of term. The Scorpions,
busy in their various ways with the hundred details that have to be
attended to before “going down,” were all pleasantly excited by the
anticipation of their quest, which was to begin on the morrow. Carter,
shaking hands with the warden of New College in the college hall
(a pleasant little formality performed at the end of each term)
absent-mindedly replied “Wolverhampton” when the warden asked him where
he was going to spend the vacation. He was then hard put to it to avoid
a letter of introduction to the vicar of St. Philip's in that city, an
old pupil of the warden. King, bicycling rapidly down the greasy Turl
with an armful of books, collided vigorously with another cyclist at the
corner of the High. They both sprawled on the curb, bikes interlocked.
“My god, sir!” cried the Goblin; “Why not watch where you're going?”
Then he saw it was Johnny Blair. “Sorry, Goblin,” said the latter; “I--I
was thinking about Kathleen.” “So was I,” said King, picking up
his books. And in defiance of the University statute of 1636 (still
unrepealed) which warns students against “frequenting dicing houses,
taverns, or booths where the nicotian herb is sold,” they went into
Hedderly's together to buy tobacco.
After breakfast the next morning they were all in cabs on their way to
the Great Western Station. It was a mild and sunny day, with puffs of
spring in the air. Who can ever forget the Saturday morning at the end
of term when the men “go down”? Long lines of hansoms spinning briskly
toward the station, with bulging portmanteaus on the roof; the wide
sunny sweep of the Broad with the 'bus trundling past Trinity gates;
a knot of tall youths in the 'varsity uniform of gray “bags” and brown
tweed norfolk, smoking and talking at the Balliol lodge--and over it all
the clang of a hundred chimes, the gray fingers of a thousand spires
and pinnacles, the moist blue sky of England.... Ah, it is the palace of
youth, or it was once.
The Scorpions met on the dingy north-bound platform. Graham, Keith,
and Twiston had been obliged to scratch owing to other more imperative
plans; but five members boarded the 10 o'clock train in high spirits.
Forbes, Carter, King, Blair, and Whitney--they filled a third-class
smoker with tobacco and jest.
“Now, Goblin,” cried Falstaff, as the train ran past the Port Meadow,
and the Radcliffe dome dropped from view; “Open those sealed orders! You
promised to draw up the rules of the game.”
King pulled a paper from his pocket.
“I jotted down some points,” he said. “This is the time to discuss
them.”
_“Rules to be Observed by the Scorpions on the Great Kathleen Excursion_
“1. The headquarters of the expedition will be the Blue Boar Inn at
Wolverhampton. (I've written to them to engage rooms.)
“2. The Kriegspiel will begin to-day at 2 P.M., and manoeuvres will
continue without intermission until someone is declared the winner, or
until time is called.
“3. The object of the contest is to make the acquaintance of Kathleen;
to engage her in friendly conversation; to win her confidence, and to
induce her to accept an invitation to Commem, or Eights Week.
“4. Any deception, strategy, or tactics which are not calculated to give
intolerable distress or embarrassment to Kathleen and her family, are
allowable.
“5. If by noon on Tuesday no one shall have succeeded in making friends
with Kathleen, the game shall be declared off.”
“Suppose she's not at home?” said Whitney.
“We'll have to chance that.”
“What time do we get there?”
“I've ordered lunch at the Blue Boar at one o'clock. This train gets to
Wolvers at 12:30.”
It was a merry ride. The story of Kathleen as they had written it was
discussed pro and con.; the usual protests were launched at Carter
for having in his chapter lowered the theme to the level of burlesque;
praise was accorded to the Goblin for the dexterity with which he had
rescued the plot. Blair's chapter had been full of American slang which
had to be explained to the others. “Joe,” the Rhodes Scholar hero, had
shown a vein of fine gold under Blair's hands: he bade fair to win the
charming Kathleen, although the story had not been finished owing to
the examinations which had fallen upon the brotherhood toward the end of
term. The game, begun in pure jest, had taken on something of romantic
earnest: there was not one of these young men who did not see in
Kathleen his own ideal of slender, bright-cheeked girlhood. And when
the train pulled into Wolverhampton, they tumbled out of their smoking
carriage with keen expectation.
V
Perhaps the best way to pursue the next episodes in the quest is in the
words of Johnny Blair, the Rhodes Scholar, who jotted down some notes in
a journal he kept:
We got to Wolverhampton 12:25, Ingersoll time. Had a jolly trip on
the train, all the Scorps laying bets as to who would be first to meet
Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't want to let these
English blighters get ahead of me, especially after all the ragging
Indiana Joe got in the story.
Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run empty, and
I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand. Saw the prettiest
flapper of my life on the platform--the real English type; tweed suit,
dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like almond blossoms. She had on a
blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliest figure I ever saw, perfect ankle, but
the usual heavy brogues on her feet. Why do English girls always wear
woollen stockings? Was so taken with her I almost missed the train. She
got into a third-class compartment farther up the train. The others were
all bickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her.
I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. They had all
brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacation baggage. My
idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had only my rucksack, left
rest of my stuff at coll., to be forwarded later. While the other chaps
were getting their stuff out of the goods van I spotted Miss Flapper
getting off the train. She got into a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was
standing near. I heard her say to cabby: “318, Bancroft Road!” Lord, was
I tickled? I kept mum.
Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, but Goblin
and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place for Kathleen to live!
Fine old church, though, and lovely market place. We kept our eyes open
for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign.
When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the coffee
room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful cheddar
cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of it--all drank
Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got up from the table.
All the others beat it off immediately in different directions--looking
for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more finesse would be
needed. I started off with the others, then pretended I had left
my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I was going to look up the town
directory, to find Kathleen's name--knowing the address, that would be
easy. But there was Goblin doing the same thing! We both laughed and
looked it up together. The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip
Kent, F.S.A., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book
put him down as an “antiquarian.” Kathleen's father, evidently.
Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe and
pondered.
The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they would do
when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be a book agent
and get into the house that way. Another said he would be the grocer's
man and make friends with the cook. Someone else suggested dressing up
as a plumber or gas-man, and going there to fix some imaginary leak.
Knowing that the Kents were not fools, I imagined it wouldn't be long
before they'd get wise to the fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts
was picketing the house. Probably they'd put the police on them. Also,
there's nobody harder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives
himself away at every turn. If “Fred” was around he'd be sure to smell a
rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as a plumber,
and get in the house on some pretext or other--still wearing his
wrist-watch!
I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft Road for
a while and try to pull wires from a distance:
The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks out over
the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the square I had
noticed a little post office. You can send a telegram from any post
office in England, and I thought that would be my best entering wedge.
The word “antiquarian” in the directory had given me a notion. On a
blank I composed the following message, after some revisions: