FINCH
One stormy night in the early autumn, two years after the events
narrated in the last chapter, a group of masters were sitting in their
common-room at Deal School. Supper was just concluded; a cheerful fire
burned on the hearth, and the crackling of the flames was a pleasing
contrast to the roar of the wind and the dashing of the rain without.
Two of the masters were playing chess under the light of a lamp, the
others were sitting before the fire, smoking and talking.
“Well,” remarked Beverly, one of the younger men, noted among his
colleagues for his readiness to express an opinion upon any subject in
the universe, “what do you think of the Head’s latest departure?”
Mr. Roylston pursed his thin close-shaven lips as though he were about
to reply, but before doing so he carefully pressed the tobacco into his
pipe, and struck a match and applied it. “I don’t know,” he muttered,
between the puffs, in rather a high jerky voice, “that it makes very
much difference what we think. But I am inclined to characterize it as
an arrival rather than a departure.”
“It is certainly very much with us,” commented Gray, with an
absent-minded glance into the fire.
“Well, I predict its speedy extinction,” resumed Beverly. “It is
difficult for me to conceive how the Doctor can suppose that Finch will
ever get on here. Upon my word, did you ever see such an object?”
“Upon _my_ word, I did not,” answered Gray. “But here it certainly is,
and in a sense it is bound to get on. I am entrusted with its table
manners, if one may speak of what does not exist.”
“I believe that Morris is to have it in his house,” said Roylston,
looking over at the chess players.
“It? who? Oh, you are talking about Finch, eh? Queer little duffer,
isn’t he?”
“Queer?” murmured Beverly in a tone that spoke volumes of intense pity
for the limits of Morris’s vocabulary. “Perhaps you can really tell us
something about it, Mr. Morris?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid,” Morris replied. “The Doctor has some
special interest,—he’s a trust, I understand, from a very old friend.
It is very much up to us, I fancy, to help make things easy for the
poor kid. I shall speak to some of the boys in my house about him, and
ask them to go out of their way to be a bit decent.”
“Speedy execution were the more merciful, I should say,” commented Mr.
Roylston, taking a comfortable pull at his pipe.
“Nonsense! he’ll make good,” said Morris, a shade of irritation
crossing his face, “that is, if we give him half a chance.”
“I don’t precisely see why we should be supposed to give him less
or more chance than we give to every boy,” said Beverly, a little
pompously. “I am sure we all——”
“_We_ can’t perhaps,” Roylston rejoined, “but doubtless Mr. Morris, who
has the advantage of certain confidential relations with the boys of
his house which we do not enjoy, probably can.”
“Oh, come, Roylston,” exclaimed Morris, making a bad move in his game
with Stenton. “Of course, I shall use my influence with the boys in my
house to make things easy for poor Finch. Why should I not?”
“Echo answers ‘why,’” replied Mr. Roylston, somewhat annoyed; and then
he added with an air of indulgence, “but be assured, my dear fellow, I
have no intention of criticising your extraordinary theories afresh.”
“Thank you,” said Morris and gave his attention to his game. “Your
move, Stenton, I think.”
Mr. Roylston sent a characteristic glance of patient suffering in the
direction of his colleague, and then held up his hands for the benefit
of the company as though to say, “You see how useless it is to discuss
these things with our friend over there.” He then bade them all a tart
good-night, and went off to keep his duty in the schoolroom.
His way led across the Gymnasium. There, in the center of a crowd
of boys engaged in making his life miserable, stood the new boy,
Finch, who had just been the subject of conversation in the masters’
common-room. He was a sorry specimen of a boy, to be sure; the sorriest
probably that through mistaken kindness had ever found his way to a
great school of wholesome, healthy youngsters. He was thin, he was
pallid, he was ugly. He had the face of a little old man, weak light
eyes, a high dome-like forehead, over which straggled little wisps
of thin yellow hair. His ill-formed mouth was parted now in a snarl
half of rage, half of terror, as he glanced from one jibing boy to
another, like a hunted rat. His clothes were too small for him, and
his thin little legs, which long since should have been concealed by
long trousers, were incased in bright red knitted stockings. These
had acted upon the imagination of his schoolmates like the proverbial
red rag upon a bull, and were the subject of the stream of jibes and
jokes that were being heaped upon him. It was not a representative
crowd of boys that surrounded him, but a miscellaneous crew of lower
schoolers who had followed in the wake of a fat Third Form boy, known
as Ducky Thornton, the self-appointed chief inquisitor of the moment.
The noise was unduly loud, consisting for the most part of catcalls and
strange and weird squeaks from the throats of a dozen excited small
boys. It was the sort of commotion that under ordinary circumstances
Mr. Roylston would have promptly checked and rewarded with a liberal
distribution of pensums. Such indeed had been his immediate impulse,
but as he started to carry out his purpose, he had caught sight of
Finch and there had flashed into his mind the irritating exchange
of words about him in the common-room. He checked the feeling of
compassion for the new boy and his annoyance at the disturbance, and
passed quickly into the cloister that led into the schoolroom.
Fortunately for Finch a more resolute champion now appeared upon the
scene. It was Kit Wilson—on his way across the Gymnasium. Quick as a
flash he took in the situation, and, crossing the room with a leap and
a stride, he landed in the midst of the party of “horsers.” He grabbed
one small boy by the collar of his coat and sent him spinning out into
the middle of the Gymnasium, another he pushed out of his way with
something of his football manner, and ended by applying a kick to Ducky
Thornton that even that well-cushioned individual was apt to remember.
“Here, you infernal cads!” he cried, “cut this out! what the deuce do
you think you’re up to?” The crowd of small boys scattered instantly,
leaving poor Ducky, with rueful face and painful limp, to hobble away
by himself, pursued by a volley of Kit’s variegated vocabulary that was
more picturesque than elegant.
Finch stood still where Kit had found him as if transfixed. He was
relieved, thankful for the rescue, but incapable of saying so. His face
looked hideous in the bright glare of the electric light, drawn as it
was by anguish and blazing with what seemed like superhuman hate. Kit
stared at him a moment, amazed by the passion of the boy’s face; almost
shocked by its weird uncanny venom. Conquering the instinctive feeling
of revulsion, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You poor little
duffer,” he said, “I’m sorry for you. Don’t take it too hard. They’re a
crowd of little curs, but their bark is worse than their bite.”
“I hate them,” snarled the boy. “I hate them.” Then his face relaxed,
and the light faded in his little blue eyes, as they suffused with
tears. “Thank you all the same,” he added, his voice still trembling
with passion.
“What’s your name?” asked Kit.
“Jacob Finch.”
“Oh! you’re the new boy, eh? Where do you come from?”
“Coventry. I wish I was back. I can’t stand it here.”
“Rot!” exclaimed Kit, with the easy-going philosophy of popularity and
success. “Cut along to the schoolroom now, and let me know if Ducky
Thornton bothers you again.”
“All right,” Finch murmured, and dropping his head, he stole off
through the cloister, keeping well within the shadow of the wall until
he reached the schoolroom. There he was received by Mr. Roylston, who
showed him a seat, and immediately afterwards called the room to order.
Kit, having watched Finch out of sight, stalked off grandly across the
Gymnasium, dropping a word of warning here and there to the groups of
small boys who had watched the encounter from a safe distance. Ducky
Thornton witnessed his departure from an angle in the wall, whither he
had retired with a few of his satellites. His face, at no time very
attractive, wore now a most repulsive expression of contempt. “By
golly,” was his comment, “he’s the swell head, ain’t he? I wonder if he
hurts?”
“Not as much as you do, Ducky, I guess,” squeaked a premature wit and
got his ears cuffed for his effort.
A few minutes later Wilson dropped into the study of Number Five
Standerland, which Deering and Lawrence were sharing that year, Carroll
having been promoted to the Old School, a privilege of the Sixth. The
two boys were sitting at their desks, books open, it is true, but
rather deeper in football than Virgil. Kit received a characteristic
welcome.
“Hello, old sport, drape yourself on a couch, and listen to this fairy
tale about the pious Æneas. Tony’s boned it out.”
“Oh, chuck the stuff!” growled Kit. “I’ll do it after breakfast with a
trot. I’ve only got ten minutes now for a pow-wow. Have you seen the
new kid?”
“Well, rather,” answered Jimmie, “the Doctor has loaded him onto Bill.
He’s to have Number Three single right across the hall. The little
beast is in the Fifth.”
“Pon honor?” said Kit. “Why, he looks like a sub-First Former. I just
rescued him from a crowd of Lower Schoolers that were putting it to
him particularly nastily. I gave Ducky Thornton, that wallowing white
elephant of the Third, a kick that I reckon’ll make his sitting down
uncomfortable for a week. But Finch is such a gloomy little toad that I
was almost sorry I’d done it.”
Tony smiled. “That must have been good fun. But I am sorry the Doctor
took him here; can’t understand it, in fact. He’ll never do, poor rat!”
“Well, hardly.”
“By the by, kiddo, what——Come in!” he interrupted himself to cry in
response to a knock at the door.
Morris entered and was welcomed by the boys in a manner that bespoke
both familiarity and deference. The master waved them back into their
comfortable chairs. “Thanks, no; I am not going to rob the lot of you
of these precious moments of study. I should like to speak to you,
Tony, for a few minutes in my study.”
“Certainly, sir.” Tony followed the master down the hallway to the
familiar cheerful study—Tony had really got to know his house-master
more intimately the year before.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Morris, “for I want to talk with you
for a little while—quite seriously.”
Tony sat down upon the couch, leaned back amongst the pillows and put
his hands beneath his head, looking up at Morris who stood on the
hearth rug with his back to the open wood fire. “All right, O wise
man!” he laughed. “I am very comfy, and all attention.”
Morris looked down at the boy and seemed to study him afresh. He liked
Deering very much indeed, better he felt than he had ever liked a boy
before. And as he stood there, he told himself that the reason was,
that beside Tony’s personal charm, the brightness and lovableness of
his sunshiny open nature, there were depths of feeling and purpose
that one ordinarily did not find. “Well, Tony, I want you to do
something—something quite out of the ordinary—something indeed that I
think will be particularly hard and disagreeable.”
“What is it?” asked the boy, “I don’t exactly crave hardship, but
there isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do if you specially asked me.”
“Well, I count on that; that’s partly the reason I am asking you rather
than another. I want you to make a special effort to look out for
Finch.”
“Gee whiz! Mr. Morris,” exclaimed Tony, sitting upright, and assuming
an expression of exaggerated horror. “I’ve seen him! I’ll be decent, of
course. But really, I don’t see how I can possibly stand taking that
little scarecrow under my wing. Why, Jimmie and Kit would——”
“Oh, yes, I know their attitude; but you know as well as I that they
would back you up in the matter. I want you to be more than decent. The
boy is here, and the Head has strong reasons for wanting him to make
good. As you know, all the chances are against his doing so. In truth,
I should say, that the boy has no chance unless an old boy, more or
less of your caliber, will definitely take him up and befriend him.”
“Nobody is going to hurt him,” protested Tony. “Why, Kit just now
rescued him from Ducky Thornton and a crowd of little bullies.”
“That’s good,” answered Morris, “but that is only a drop in the bucket.
That boy’s life will be unbearable unless he makes a friend. And I
do not believe there is a boy in the school who would be his friend,
_really his friend_,—except you.”
“His friend, Mr. Morris?...!”
“Nothing else helps you know—_nothing_.”
Tony grew serious. He thought of what friendship had meant to
him:—Jimmie—his eyes moistened at the thought of him; Carroll;
Morris, the man before him, whose deep kind gray eyes were looking at
him now so confidently. “Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “you do know me,
I reckon; you bank on my being clay in your hands.” Then he laughed,
“What’s the brat’s name?—Pinch?”
“No, Finch, Jacob Finch.”
“Well, all right—Finch.... The dickens fly away with him. Good-night,
maestro.”
“Good-night, my boy.” They clasped hands for a moment, and Tony was
gone.
“I am an ass,” he said, flinging himself on the couch by the side of
Kit, when he returned to Number Five. “I’ve promised Bill to be a
guardian angel to that new kid.”