THE HEAD PREFECTSHIP
A warm bright September day at Deal. A golden light from the western
sun fell athwart the green fields of the school and cast great shadows
upon the beach and the tranquil bay beyond. It had rained the day
before, after a long drought, so that the air was fresh and the foliage
had taken on a gayer green. The long white Port Road leading down the
hill toward Monday Port was dotted with hacks, flies, barges, coming to
and returning from the school, each one depositing at the terrace steps
a somewhat noisy and merry contingent of boys. They, after greeting the
Doctor and Mrs. Forester in the great hall, scattered to their quarters
to stow their belongings and compare animated notes with their friends.
From an angle of the Old School, where he was screened from view by
a mass of shrubbery, Jacob Finch lay flat on his stomach, his peaked
face in his hands, and his thin little legs, half hidden now by long
trousers, kicking in the air behind him. Below him, descending terrace
by terrace and over the green sloping fields, stretched the wonderful
Deal country, so fresh and wind-swept, gleaming in the mellow afternoon
light; he looked out over the curving tawny beach, the great sweep of
the greenish-brown marshes, the grayish-green of the dunes, the still
sheet of opaque water under the ledges of Lovel’s Woods; and beyond the
great fan-shaped curves of Strathsey Neck, the rocks, the islands, and
at last the boundless expanse of the ocean, blue this afternoon as an
Italian lake. It was an afternoon to remember, to feel glad for from a
sense of its sheer beauty.
But Finch was totally unconscious of the scene before him. Instead
his eyes were fastened with an intent gaze upon the white road and
the long driveway that divided the playing-fields. He eagerly scanned
each vehicle as it approached and deposited its load at the flight of
steps that led up to the principal terrace. Each time an expression of
disappointment would settle upon his face, until it was transformed
again to eager interest at the approach of another carriage.
Finch had spent the summer at Deal, so perhaps there was little reason
for him to become enthusiastic over a prospect of beauty of which he
had had so many opportunities for growing weary. As he looked back
on the spring term, he hardly knew how he had got through it. He
lived during its last six weeks more than ever in his shell, studying
desperately to pass his examinations. And in that he had succeeded.
After Deering’s departure and his own exposure before Wilson, he
avoided every one, even Lawrence and Mr. Morris. And save on two or
three occasions, after a more bitter jibe than usual in the classroom
when he revenged himself on Mr. Roylston, he gave up his secret
vandalism. During the summer he stayed on at Deal. The time had gone
pleasantly enough, and had he been able to recoup his health, he might
have been restored to an equable frame of mind, but unfortunately he
was physically as miserable as ever.
By the middle of August he began to worry about the possibility of
Deering not coming back. After a letter or so, which characteristically
he had left unanswered, he heard nothing from Tony. In August he heard,
however, from Doctor Forester, who was spending a week-end with the
Lawrences at Easthampfield. “You will be interested to learn,” he
had written, “that your friend Anthony Deering is here with James,
and that there is now no longer any doubt of his returning to school
in September. I look forward to great things from him as leader of
the school.” From that time on Finch lived from day to day on the
expectation of Tony’s return. He was thrilled by the implied statement
of the Head Master’s letter that Tony would be appointed Head Prefect,
though he could not imagine that any other boy had for a moment been
seriously considered. Several times the first day of the term when
he had heard the boys discussing the probability of Tony’s return
and appointment, he smiled to himself with secret glee and a strange
feeling of self-importance at his inside information. But he said
nothing. It pleased him though that almost all of the boys seemed to
take it for granted.
At last, on that lovely September afternoon as Jake lay under the
bushes on the Old School terrace, he was rewarded for his long vigil.
In one of the last of the many carriages that drove up, he saw Lawrence
and Deering. The rays of the setting sun were shining on the top
of Tony’s bare copper-colored head and made it glow like burnished
gold. To Jake’s adoring eyes it was as the halo about the head of a
patron saint. He watched the two boys clamber out of their hack, pay
the driver, and join a merry crowd of fellows who were unofficially
welcoming late arrivals. “Hello Tony!” “Hello Jim!” “Well, I’m mighty
glad to see you!” With such cries he heard fresh young voices ring; and
with bright eyes, he followed his hero as he entered the doors of the
Old School in the midst of a happy crowd of his classmates. Through the
window, to which he crept, he saw the cordial greeting that Tony and
Jimmie got from the Doctor and Mrs. Forester. A moment later Finch saw
Kit Wilson enter, and heartily greet every one except Tony. He sent a
glance of vindictive hatred toward Wilson that it was well for him Kit
did not see.
About half-an-hour after supper Jake tapped timidly at the door of
Number Five study. In response there came a hearty “Come in.”
“Why, hello, Finch,” cried Tony, grasping his visitor’s hand with a
strong grip, “I declare, you’re getting fat.”
Finch laughed ruefully. “Not very, I guess.”
“Well, old chap, how have you been? Why the deuce haven’t you ever
written to me?”
“I dunno; I’m no hand at writing, I guess. I was glad to hear from you
though.”
“How goes it? Where have you been all summer?”
“Here,” answered Finch laconically.
“Here! what on earth were you doing here?”
“Didn’t have money enough to go any place else. The Head gave me some
work in the library, cataloguing books.”
“Good for him! I ought to have been working myself, I reckon. Money’s
been pretty scarce down our way too. By Jove, old boy, it’s good to be
back, you know. You don’t know how much you care for the old shop till
you leave it.”
“No, I guess you don’t,” was Finch’s ambiguous reply.
“Well, Jake, we’re going to have a good year this time anyway. I’m
going to pull you out of the dumps instanter. Jimmie says you’ve been
cutting Number Five since I’ve been away. That won’t do.” He looked
about him with undisguised pride and pleasure. “Things do look pretty
nice and comfy in the old camp-ground, don’t they?”
“They certainly do look good for you, Deering. You’ll be Head Prefect.”
“Stop your kidding, Jake.”
“Oh, you know you’ll get it,” said Jake. “I guess it would have been
announced all right last spring if you hadn’t been so sure you mightn’t
come back. But it’s all right now.”
“Well, to tell the truth,” rejoined Tony with a laugh, “of course I
hope it’s all right. It’s a sort of a turn-down when a President of the
Dealonian doesn’t get it. But there are other chaps that deserve it
on other accounts much more than I do. There’s Ned Clavering and Doc
Thorn. They are the right sort. We’ve never been very thick but there
aren’t two fellows in the school that I have more respect for. I reckon
if I hadn’t made that lucky run in the Boxford game and been elected
President of the Dealonian soon after, that Ned would have had a better
chance than I. Fact is, I really never thought of being Head Prefect
till I had that election thrust upon me.”
“Clavering and Thorn are prefects all right. But you are to be head.
The Doctor told me so himself.”
“The deuce he did!”
“Honest. He wrote me a letter about my being here last summer while he
was at Easthampfield, staying with Mr. Lawrence. He said you were there
with Lawrence, and then told me that you were to be Head Prefect.”
“That’s funny. But if it’s so, why of course I’m mighty glad. As far
back as I know anything about the school there have only been three
Presidents of Dealonian who were not Head Prefect in their Sixth Form
year. However, it means a lot of responsibility and knocks out chances
of a heap of fun.”
“I guess you’re up to it,” said Finch with conviction.
“If I get it, I’ll certainly try to make good. But as a matter of fact
I haven’t got it yet. Tell me how things went last year? How’s the dear
old Gumshoe?”
“Same as ever. I hate him.”
“Tut, tut, my child; there’s mighty few people worth hating.”
“He is,” said Jake without a smile. “He’s a sneak.”
“Now, as a matter of fact, Jake, I don’t think he is. The Gumshoe, as
I have reason to know, can be uncommonly mean, but I don’t believe
for a minute that he’s a sneak. I am coming by degrees, reflection
bein’ aided by merciful separation, to understand the Gumshoe’s point
of view: it’s pinched and peaked, but it isn’t sneaky—he is just as
disagreeable to your face as he possibly can be behind your back. He’s
had a hard row to hoe, and I don’t blame him now and then for being
crabbed and sour. But I reckon he takes it out in that.”
“I don’t think he does,” said Finch quite unconvinced by Tony’s more
generous reasoning. “I don’t think so at all. He’d strike in the dark.
I don’t trust him.”
“Reggie never would either,” Tony mused for the moment; then more
cheerfully, “But come, let’s talk of something pleasant. How——Why,
hello, Ted.” This last exclamation was directed at a drab comical face
and ruffled head of mouse-colored hair that thrust itself through the
half-open doorway. “Come in, you duffer.”
“Didn’t know you were busy,” said Teddy Lansing, entering.
“Well, I ain’t,” said Tony.
Finch rose from his seat on the window-sill and sidled toward the door.
“I guess I’ll be going,” he said to Deering, and bolted.
“Now, what the deuce is the matter with him?” exclaimed Tony. “He shies
at his shadow.”
“Pah—Pinch!” Teddy spat with emphasis at the waste paper basket.
Tony looked up quickly, but restrained the impulse of annoyance.
“What’s the matter with Finch?”
“Oh, nothing particular. I just don’t like him. He’s a sneak. But
there, I beg your pardon, Tony,” Teddy caught himself, remembering
the cause of Deering’s quarrel with Wilson. “I suppose you will stand
up for him. I don’t know much about him; but he got on my nerves last
spring to a degree. Guess he’s bug-house.”
“He has had a blamed hard time here—that accounts for it. But I don’t
think he is a sneak. If we had given him half a chance——.”
“I know, I know, old chap; you’ve certainly given him more than half
a chance, and if you think it pays, all right all right. I think, you
know, that Pinch isn’t worth the trouble you’ve taken with him. But
I’ll admit that I had no right to call him a sneak. However he hasn’t
made good here.”
“Perhaps not,” said Tony. “But I wish he could. Where’s the crowd?”
“Unpacking, I guess. What sort of a summer have you had, old man? We
missed you a lot here last spring.”
“Bully—I was down in the mountains, North Carolina. Where were you?”
“Oh, home mostly. Confound! there’s the bell for Chapel. Come on, let’s
wander down.”
The two boys made their way, arm in arm, through Standerland corridors,
across a moonlight-flooded campus to the Chapel. At the entrance they
came face to face with Mr. Roylston; he gave them a short greeting and
passed rapidly within. Tony was in high spirits, and waited outside
until the last moment, greeting boys he had not seen and an occasional
master. He could not help wondering, as he took his seat with a feeling
of pride in the Sixth Form rows, if the Doctor would announce who was
to be Head Prefect that evening.
But he did not. After the customary short service, an adaptation of
Evening Prayer from the Prayer-book, the Head made a few general
announcements, including a faculty meeting that evening, and then gave
the boys a talk. Doctor Forester was at his best in Chapel. There was a
simplicity in his sermons and addresses, a rugged kindly earnestness,
lit up by occasional flashes of insight and vision, that made him from
the Chapel pulpit a genuine moral and religious force amongst his
boys. His theme that evening was the Power of Kindness as a source of
happiness and goodness in the life of the school. Tony, as he listened,
felt a pang of remorse for his jibes at Mr. Roylston and a keen sting
of regret for his difference with Kit; otherwise, on the whole, he
thought, he did try to be kind. And he liked what the Doctor said
because it put his own views into much better, clearer terms than he
could have given them.
Tony, though he had absorbed much of the best that the school and the
strong men who made the school could give him, had not consciously
been deeply touched or drawn to the religious life of the place. He
said his prayers at night; once in a long, long time he read his
Bible; he tried to do his duty mostly, he wanted usually to be kind;
indeed he usually was kind; and, thought little more about it. His
family were all churchmen and he supposed that some time he would be
confirmed, but he had not yet been, and indeed had never understood
what it was that drew people, especially boys of his age, toward a
more personal religion. But to-night, the old familiar hymns, sung
with such hearty good will; the gracious cadences of the well-known
prayers and psalms; the sense of dependence upon and communion with
a Higher Power that breathed in the Doctor’s talk to them: and
particularly the soft singing in Latin of an old monastic hymn, set to
a Gregorian rhythm which the boys always sang at evening services in
the Chapel:—to-night, it all touched him more intimately and deeply
than it ever had done before.
“I think I will be confirmed this year, Jimmie,” he said to his
room-mate, as they strolled across the campus in the soft night, with
their arms about each other’s necks.
“I wish you would,” Jimmie replied, somewhat to his surprise. “I was
confirmed last spring, and I’m mighty glad I was.”
They fell then into intimate talk—of themselves, of the summer, of
their plans for the year....
While the boys of the school were busy that evening with their
unpacking and the setting of their rooms to order, under the
supervision of the younger masters, the senior members of the faculty
were gathering for their first meeting of the term in the Masters’
common-room. This room was directly back of the library. Its windows
opened eastward on to the terrace, and commanded a superb view of the
moonlight-flooded sea and shore. The windows were opened to the night
air, and the fragrance of the late honeysuckle drifted in on the soft
breeze.
Doctor Forester was the last to enter. He had stopped a moment in the
library to speak with Finch, who was reading there.
“Oh, Jacob,” he said, pausing as if he suddenly recollected something,
“do you chance to remember a letter I wrote you last summer from
Easthampfield when I was staying with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I just wish to caution you not to repeat any remark I seem to
recall having made there about this year’s Head Prefect. I want it to
come as a surprise to all the boys, as well as to the boy I think I
mentioned. But the appointment is not made yet—it is always done in
conjunction with the masters.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Doctor passed on into the common-room.
In a few moments he had settled himself behind the big table, and
glanced about over his glasses at his colleagues, to see who was
present. About thirty members of the faculty were there, including all
of the senior masters. Morris was standing with a little group by the
fireplace. Mr. Roylston was sitting by the window looking out upon the
moonlit sea.
“Gentlemen, will you please come to order.” The Doctor paused for a
moment while they settled into various attitudes of attention. “I have
called you together to-night to settle with your advice the question of
the Head Prefectship. I have seldom postponed this appointment until
after the Long Vacation, but last June the boy who seemed to have most
claim to the place left school and it was doubtful for the time if he
would return. I may say, that I should have appointed him even with
that doubt unsettled, had not one of the senior masters particularly
requested me to postpone the appointment until this fall.”
He paused again, and looked about him. “There is no reason for further
delay. The obvious candidate for the position is, of course, Anthony
Deering. He was, as you all know, not only the president of the
Dealonian Society, which according to tradition registers the boys’
choice of their leader, but he was unanimously nominated to me by the
retiring prefects of last year’s Sixth Form. I may say at once, that
unless there is strong reason to the contrary, that I am disposed to
confirm that nomination this evening. He is a boy who has been keenly
interested in most of the school activities and he has shown ability
and capacity for leadership in most of them. Personally, as we all
feel I imagine, he is a charming lad, high bred, coming of one of the
best old southern families; and, as on several occasions I have had
the opportunity for judging, he has always displayed a sense of honor
and an attitude of unselfishness and kindness that is as rare as it is
delightful. I should be glad, however, to hear your comments on the
nomination, or to have the merits of any other boy discussed whom you
may feel is entitled to consideration.”
After a moment’s silence, Stenton addressed the masters. “Doctor
Forester,” he said, “I should like to say that I thoroughly agree with
all that you say about Deering. I have observed him at close quarters
on the athletic field, and I never knew a squarer, more plucky lad. As
you know, other things being equal, I believe that an athlete should
have preference for the Head Prefectship. Two years ago I doubted if
Deering would fulfill his athletic promise, but his exploit in the
Boxford game of last year, thoroughly re-established his athletic
reputation. I think he is, simply because of his genial character and
general popularity, better adapted to the position than Ned Clavering,
the football captain, who would be my next choice. He too is a fine
chap, and though he lacks Deering’s attractiveness, he is not so quick
and impulsive.”
“His impulses,” asked the Head, “are usually generous, are they not?”
“Yes, I think they are,” Stenton replied. “He is decidedly my choice.”
“And you, Mr. Morris?”
“Why, yes, sir; I fancy my opinion of Deering is well known. He has
faults. He is impulsive, as Stenton says; he is quick and he has a
sharp temper. But granting that, I am frank to say that he is a boy
whom it has been a privilege as well as a pleasure to know. I think not
merely that we would make no mistake in selecting him for Head Prefect,
but that we could not possibly find another boy who would do so well.”
“That is very much my impression,” said the Doctor. “Unless—yes, Mr.
Roylston.”
“I am sorry to say,” interrupted Mr. Roylston, from his seat on the
window-bench, in low distinct tones in which there was discernible but
a trace of feeling, “I am sorry to say there is an ‘unless.’ I regret
very much to utter a discordant note to the chorus of praise that has
been sounding for the boy whose name is under our consideration, but a
sense of duty as well as deep personal feeling impels me to say that I
should regard it as a calamity of injustice if he should receive this
appointment.”
The men turned with amazement and curiosity in the direction of the
Latin master. “My experience of him,” that gentleman continued,
“though it has scarcely been as intimate as that of Mr. Stenton or Mr.
Morris,—both of whom, I understand, believe in as well as practice,
cultivating intimacies with boys,—but it has been as extended. And
never, I desire to say, in my long experience have I had as much
trouble or been subjected to such impertinence and insult as by Deering
and his satellites.”
Doctor Forester interrupted his assistant master a little impatiently.
“I should be obliged if you will specify some of his delinquencies, Mr.
Roylston.”
“I fear I should exhaust your patience,” replied the master, “if I
attempted to detail the difficulties to which I have been subjected. I
shall content myself with but one instance which was the culmination
last spring of a long series of annoyances.”
All of the men in the room were now giving Mr. Roylston an undivided
attention. All were surprised except Beverly; even Morris looked at
him with open-eyed amazement. They knew, of course, that he had had
what they regarded trifling disciplinary troubles with Deering and his
friends,—a lively crowd, especially in their Lower School days,—but
they had no reason to suspect that the master would take such a
definitely hostile attitude in a matter that seriously affected a boy’s
school life. Doctor Forester had had some slight intimation, as it had
been Mr. Roylston who urged the postponement of the appointment.
“Some time last year,” continued Mr. Roylston,—“in March, to be
more exact,—I had some difficulty with Deering and Wilson, who were
then chums, though I believe that Wilson has since formed other
associations. They broke a gating that I had imposed upon them, and
when the matter was referred to the Head Master,—unwisely, I thought,
as I trust I may be pardoned for saying,—their disobedience was not
punished. From that time on I do not think that I am mistaken in saying
that I marked a bravado in their attitude toward me that was just
short of impertinence. I did not relax my vigilance, so there were no
more overt acts of disobedience. However, they had what I suppose they
considered their revenge. One day in first study I confiscated from the
boy Finch a composition entitled ‘The Spectacle.’ Upon examination it
proved to be a somewhat coarse imitation of Addison’s Spectator.” Mr.
Roylston drew a copy of Tony’s unfortunate composition from his pocket.
“The particular number that fell into my hands was entitled ‘Soft-toed
Samuel.’ With your permission, sir, I should like to read it to the
faculty.”
“Certainly,” assented Doctor Forester, “if you think best. If you
prefer——”
“I do prefer, sir.”
“Very good—read it, by all means.”
Mr. Roylston slowly unfolded the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and
read to his colleagues Tony’s effusion. He read it well, did full
justice to the sarcasm, the animus that had been in the writer’s
mind at the moment of composition. Some of the men, conscious of the
invasion it made upon magisterial dignity, were plainly in sympathy
with Roylston’s indignation; others found difficulty in concealing
their enjoyment of its wit, and a little perhaps, in hiding their
satisfaction in seeing a colleague, none too popular with themselves,
held up to ridicule.
As Mr. Roylston concluded, he folded the paper and handed it to the
Head Master. “That, sir,” he said, “is a copy of the original which
was in Anthony Deering’s handwriting, and the authorship of which he
acknowledged.”
Doctor Forester took the poor _Spectacle_ into his hands and glanced at
it. “This is, of course, very distressing; very unfortunate; a _most_
unfortunate occurrence.”
Morris spoke up quickly. “May I ask, Mr. Roylston, if Deering did not
apologize for this thing and show genuine regret?”
“For its discovery, yes,” answered Mr. Roylston dryly, as he met
Morris’s keen glance with a stare of scarcely concealed dislike.
“No, not for the discovery; for the thing itself, I mean,” said Morris.
“He apologized, of course. There was nothing else he could do as the
evidence was perfect. As for contrition, you, perhaps, are a better
judge of that than I.”
Morris flushed. “Deering has never mentioned the matter to me, Mr.
Roylston. I agree with you that it is a flagrant impropriety and that
it must have seemed to you a gratuitous insult. But, of course, it
was not intended for your eyes, and I dare say, is no worse than many
another such squib as might be directed at any of us by almost any boy.
Their sense of fun is doubtless often misdirected, but it is only a
sense of fun, I believe, and usually quite devoid of malice.”
“My acquaintance with Deering, Mr. Morris, has not been of so happy a
nature as yours. I am not able to believe that he is devoid of malice.”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted the Head, “I should be glad to hear anything
you have to say on the subject. I appreciate Mr. Roylston’s very
natural feeling. I hope very much, however, that he may see with me
that it is one of those unfortunate incidents which——.”
“Pardon me, sir,” exclaimed the master, “if I define my attitude
precisely. It will prevent misunderstanding. I have reflected on this
matter for six months. I can only say that should the Head Master and
the faculty of this school reward with the highest honors a boy who
so deeply has insulted a member of the faculty, thus seeming to stamp
with their approval a quite intolerable attitude of disrespect, that
I should be under the painful necessity of severing my connection
with the institution.” With that he rose, bowed slightly, and excused
himself.
Doctor Forester rose quickly. “Gentlemen, this is evidently a more
serious question than I had supposed. I shall speak with Mr. Roylston
alone, and with your permission I will take the responsibility of a
decision entirely upon myself. I think we may consider the meeting
adjourned.”
Had the masters that evening been less intent upon what was going on
within, sharp eyes, directed to the clump of bushes immediately beneath
the windows, might have detected an eavesdropper on their proceedings.
But they did not, and when the meeting had adjourned, he slunk,
unobserved, away.