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THE WHITE FEATHER
By P. G. Wodehouse
To:
MY BROTHER
DICK
The time of this story is a year and a term later than
that of _The Gold Bat._ The history of Wrykyn in
between these two books is dealt with in a number of
short stories, some of them brainy in the extreme, which
have appeared in various magazines. I wanted Messrs Black
to publish these, but they were light on their feet and
kept away--a painful exhibition of the White Feather.
P. G. Wodehouse
CONTENTS
Chapter
I EXPERT OPINIONS
II SHEEN AT HOME
III SHEEN RECEIVES VISITORS AND ADVICE
IV THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR
V THE WHITE FEATHER
VI ALBERT REDIVIVUS
VII MR JOE BEVAN
VIII A NAVAL BATTLE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
IX SHEEN BEGINS HIS EDUCATION
X SHEEN'S PROGRESS
XI A SMALL INCIDENT
XII DUNSTABLE AND LINTON GO UP THE RIVER
XIII DEUS EX MACHINA
XIV A SKIRMISH
XV THE ROUT AT RIPTON
XVI DRUMMOND GOES INTO RETIREMENT
XVII SEYMOUR'S ONE SUCCESS
XVIII MR BEVAN MAKES A SUGGESTION
XIX PAVING THE WAY
XX SHEEN GOES TO ALDERSHOT
XXI A GOOD START
XXII A GOOD FINISH
XXIII A SURPRISE FOR SEYMOUR'S
XXIV BRUCE EXPLAINS
I
EXPERT OPINIONS
"With apologies to gent opposite," said Clowes, "I must say I don't
think much of the team."
"Don't apologise to _me_," said Allardyce disgustedly, as he
filled the teapot, "I think they're rotten."
"They ought to have got into form by now, too," said Trevor. "It's not
as if this was the first game of the term."
"First game!" Allardyce laughed shortly. "Why, we've only got a couple
of club matches and the return match with Ripton to end the season. It
is about time they got into form, as you say."
Clowes stared pensively into the fire.
"They struck me," he said, "as the sort of team who'd get into form
somewhere in the middle of the cricket season."
"That's about it," said Allardyce. "Try those biscuits, Trevor. They're
about the only good thing left in the place."
"School isn't what it was?" inquired Trevor, plunging a hand into the
tin that stood on the floor beside him.
"No," said Allardyce, "not only in footer but in everything. The place
seems absolutely rotten. It's bad enough losing all our matches, or
nearly all. Did you hear that Ripton took thirty-seven points off us
last term? And we only just managed to beat Greenburgh by a try to
nil."
"We got thirty points last year," he went on. "Thirty-three, and
forty-two the year before. Why, we've always simply walked them. It's
an understood thing that we smash them. And this year they held us all
the time, and it was only a fluke that we scored at all. Their back
miskicked, and let Barry in."
"Barry struck me as the best of the outsides today," said Clowes. "He's
heavier than he was, and faster."
"He's all right," agreed Allardyce. "If only the centres would feed
him, we might do something occasionally. But did you ever see such a
pair of rotters?"
"The man who was marking me certainly didn't seem particularly
brilliant. I don't even know his name. He didn't do anything at footer
in my time," said Trevor.
"He's a chap called Attell. He wasn't here with you. He came after the
summer holidays. I believe he was sacked from somewhere. He's no good,
but there's nobody else. Colours have been simply a gift this year to
anyone who can do a thing. Only Barry and myself left from last year's
team. I never saw such a clearance as there was after the summer term."
"Where are the boys of the Old Brigade?" sighed Clowes.
"I don't know. I wish they were here," said Allardyce.
Trevor and Clowes had come down, after the Easter term had been in
progress for a fortnight, to play for an Oxford A team against the
school. The match had resulted in an absurdly easy victory for the
visitors by over forty points. Clowes had scored five tries off his own
bat, and Trevor, if he had not fed his wing so conscientiously, would
probably have scored an equal number. As it was, he had got through
twice, and also dropped a goal. The two were now having a late tea with
Allardyce in his study. Allardyce had succeeded Trevor as Captain of
Football at Wrykyn, and had found the post anything but a sinecure.
For Wrykyn had fallen for the time being on evil days. It was
experiencing the reaction which so often takes place in a school in the
year following a season of exceptional athletic prosperity. With Trevor
as captain of football, both the Ripton matches had been won, and also
three out of the four other school matches. In cricket the eleven had
had an even finer record, winning all their school matches, and
likewise beating the M.C.C. and Old Wrykinians. It was too early to
prophesy concerning the fortunes of next term's cricket team, but, if
they were going to resemble the fifteen, Wrykyn was doomed to the worst
athletic year it had experienced for a decade.
"It's a bit of a come-down after last season, isn't it?" resumed
Allardyce, returning to his sorrows. It was a relief to him to discuss
his painful case without restraint.
"We were a fine team last year," agreed Clowes, "and especially strong
on the left wing. By the way, I see you've moved Barry across."
"Yes. Attell can't pass much, but he passes better from right to left
than from left to right; so, Barry being our scoring man, I shifted him
across. The chap on the other wing, Stanning, isn't bad at times. Do
you remember him? He's in Appleby's. Then Drummond's useful at half."
"Jolly useful," said Trevor. "I thought he would be. I recommended you
last year to keep your eye on him."
"Decent chap, Drummond," said Clowes.
"About the only one there is left in the place," observed Allardyce
gloomily.
"Our genial host," said Clowes, sawing at the cake, "appears to have
that tired feeling. He seems to have lost that _joie de vivre_ of
his, what?"
"It must be pretty sickening," said Trevor sympathetically. "I'm glad I
wasn't captain in a bad year."
"The rummy thing is that the worse they are, the more side they stick
on. You see chaps who wouldn't have been in the third in a good year
walking about in first fifteen blazers, and first fifteen scarves, and
first fifteen stockings, and sweaters with first fifteen colours round
the edges. I wonder they don't tattoo their faces with first fifteen
colours."
"It would improve some of them," said Clowes.
Allardyce resumed his melancholy remarks. "But, as I was saying, it's
not only that the footer's rotten. That you can't help, I suppose. It's
the general beastliness of things that I bar. Rows with the town, for
instance. We've been having them on and off ever since you left. And
it'll be worse now, because there's an election coming off soon. Are
you fellows stopping for the night in the town? If so, I should advise
you to look out for yourselves."
"Thanks," said Clowes. "I shouldn't like to see Trevor sand-bagged. Nor
indeed, should I--for choice--care to be sand-bagged myself. But, as it
happens, the good Donaldson is putting us up, so we escape the perils
of the town.
"Everybody seems so beastly slack now," continued Allardyce. "It's
considered the thing. You're looked on as an awful blood if you say you
haven't done a stroke of work for a week. I shouldn't mind that so much
if they were some good at anything. But they can't do a thing. The
footer's rotten, the gymnasium six is made up of kids an inch high--we
shall probably be about ninetieth at the Public Schools'
Competition--and there isn't any one who can play racquets for nuts.
The only thing that Wrykyn'll do this year is to get the Light-Weights
at Aldershot. Drummond ought to manage that. He won the Feathers last
time. He's nearly a stone heavier now, and awfully good. But he's the
only man we shall send up, I expect. Now that O'Hara and Moriarty are
both gone, he's the only chap we have who's up to Aldershot form. And
nobody else'll take the trouble to practice. They're all too slack."
"In fact," said Clowes, getting up, "as was only to be expected, the
school started going to the dogs directly I left. We shall have to be
pushing on now, Allardyce. We promised to look in on Seymour before we
went to bed. Friend let us away."
"Good night," said Allardyce.
"What you want," said Clowes solemnly, "is a liver pill. You are
looking on life too gloomily. Take a pill. Let there be no stint. Take
two. Then we shall hear your merry laugh ringing through the old
cloisters once more. Buck up and be a bright and happy lad, Allardyce."
"Take more than a pill to make me that," growled that soured
footballer.
Mr Seymour's views on the school resembled those of Allardyce. Wrykyn,
in his opinion, was suffering from a reaction.
"It's always the same," he said, "after a very good year. Boys leave,
and it's hard to fill their places. I must say I did not expect quite
such a clearing out after the summer. We have had bad luck in that way.
Maurice, for instance, and Robinson both ought to have had another year
at school. It was quite unexpected, their leaving. They would have made
all the difference to the forwards. You must have somebody to lead the
pack who has had a little experience of first fifteen matches."
"But even then," said Clowes, "they oughtn't to be so rank as they were
this afternoon. They seemed such slackers."
"I'm afraid that's the failing of the school just now," agreed Mr
Seymour. "They don't play themselves out. They don't put just that last
ounce into their work which makes all the difference."
Clowes thought of saying that, to judge by appearances, they did not
put in even the first ounce; but refrained. However low an opinion a
games' master may have--and even express--of his team, he does not like
people to agree too cordially with his criticisms.
"Allardyce seems rather sick about it," said Trevor.
"I am sorry for Allardyce. It is always unpleasant to be the only
survivor of an exceptionally good team. He can't forget last year's
matches, and suffers continual disappointments because the present team
does not play up to the same form."
"He was saying something about rows with the town," said Trevor, after
a pause.
"Yes, there has certainly been some unpleasantness lately. It is the
penalty we pay for being on the outskirts of a town. Four years out of
five nothing happens. But in the fifth, when the school has got a
little out of hand--"
"Oh, then it really _has_ got out of hand?" asked Clowes.
"Between ourselves, yes," admitted Mr Seymour.
"What sort of rows?" asked Trevor.
Mr Seymour couldn't explain exactly. Nothing, as it were, definite--as
yet. No actual complaints so far. But still--well, trouble--yes,
trouble.
"For instance," he said, "a boy in my house, Linton--you remember
him?--is moving in society at this moment with a swollen lip and minus
a front tooth. Of course, I know nothing about it, but I fancy he got
into trouble in the town. That is merely a straw which shows how the
wind is blowing, but if you lived on the spot you would see more what I
mean. There is trouble in the air. And now that this election is coming
on, I should not wonder if things came to a head. I can't remember a
single election in Wrykyn when there was not disorder in the town. And
if the school is going to join in, as it probably will, I shall not be
sorry when the holidays come. I know the headmaster is only waiting for
an excuse to put the town out of bounds.'
"But the kids have always had a few rows on with that school in the
High Street--what's it's name--St Something?" said Clowes.
"Jude's," supplied Trevor.
"St Jude's!" said Mr Seymour. "Have they? I didn't know that."
"Oh yes. I don't know how it started, but it's been going on for two or
three years now. It's a School House feud really, but Dexter's are
mixed up in it somehow. If a School House fag goes down town he runs
like an antelope along the High Street, unless he's got one or two
friends with him. I saved dozens of kids from destruction when I was at
school. The St Jude's fellows lie in wait, and dash out on them. I used
to find School House fags fighting for their lives in back alleys. The
enemy fled on my approach. My air of majesty overawed them."
"But a junior school feud matters very little," said Mr Seymour. "You
say it has been going on for three years; and I have never heard of it
till now. It is when the bigger fellows get mixed up with the town that
we have to interfere. I wish the headmaster would put the place out of
bounds entirely until the election is over. Except at election time,
the town seems to go to sleep."
"That's what we ought to be doing," said Clowes to Trevor. "I think we
had better be off now, sir. We promised Mr Donaldson to be in some time
tonight."
"It's later than I thought," said Mr Seymour. "Good night, Clowes. How
many tries was it that you scored this afternoon? Five? I wish you were
still here, to score them for instead of against us. Good night,
Trevor. I was glad to see they tried you for Oxford, though you didn't
get your blue. You'll be in next year all right. Good night."
The two Old Wrykinians walked along the road towards Donaldson's. It
was a fine night, but misty.
"Jove, I'm quite tired," said Clowes. "Hullo!"
"What's up?"
They were opposite Appleby's at the moment. Clowes drew him into the
shadow of the fence.
"There's a chap breaking out. I saw him shinning down a rope. Let's
wait, and see who it is."
A moment later somebody ran softly through the gateway and disappeared
down the road that led to the town.
"Who was it?" said Trevor. "I couldn't see."
"I spotted him all right. It was that chap who was marking me today,
Stanning. Wonder what he's after. Perhaps he's gone to tar the statue,
like O'Hara. Rather a sportsman."
"Rather a silly idiot," said Trevor. "I hope he gets caught."
"You always were one of those kind sympathetic chaps," said Clowes.
"Come on, or Donaldson'll be locking us out."
II
SHEEN AT HOME
On the afternoon following the Oxford A match, Sheen, of Seymour's, was
sitting over the gas-stove in his study with a Thucydides. He had been
staying in that day with a cold. He was always staying in. Everyone has
his hobby. That was Sheen's.
Nobody at Wrykyn, even at Seymour's, seemed to know Sheen very well,
with the exception of Drummond; and those who troubled to think about
the matter at all rather wondered what Drummond saw in him. To the
superficial observer the two had nothing in common. Drummond was good
at games--he was in the first fifteen and the second eleven, and had
won the Feather Weights at Aldershot--and seemed to have no interests
outside them. Sheen, on the other hand, played fives for the house, and
that was all. He was bad at cricket, and had given up football by
special arrangement with Allardyce, on the plea that he wanted all his
time for work. He was in for an in-school scholarship, the Gotford.
Allardyce, though professing small sympathy with such a degraded
ambition, had given him a special dispensation, and since then Sheen
had retired from public life even more than he had done hitherto. The
examination for the Gotford was to come off towards the end of the
term.
The only other Wrykinians with whom Sheen was known to be friendly were
Stanning and Attell, of Appleby's. And here those who troubled to think
about it wondered still more, for Sheen, whatever his other demerits,
was not of the type of Stanning and Attell. There are certain members
of every public school, just as there are certain members of every
college at the universities, who are "marked men". They have never been
detected in any glaring breach of the rules, and their manner towards
the powers that be is, as a rule, suave, even deferential. Yet it is
one of the things which everybody knows, that they are in the black
books of the authorities, and that sooner or later, in the picturesque
phrase of the New Yorker, they will "get it in the neck". To this class
Stanning and Attell belonged. It was plain to all that the former was
the leading member of the firm. A glance at the latter was enough to
show that, whatever ambitions he may have had in the direction of
villainy, he had not the brains necessary for really satisfactory
evildoing. As for Stanning, he pursued an even course of life, always
rigidly obeying the eleventh commandment, "thou shalt not be found
out". This kept him from collisions with the authorities; while a ready
tongue and an excellent knowledge of the art of boxing--he was, after
Drummond, the best Light-Weight in the place--secured him at least
tolerance at the hand of the school: and, as a matter of fact, though
most of those who knew him disliked him, and particularly those who,
like Drummond, were what Clowes had called the Old Brigade, he had,
nevertheless, a tolerably large following. A first fifteen man, even in
a bad year, can generally find boys anxious to be seen about with him.
That Sheen should have been amongst these surprised one or two people,
notably Mr Seymour, who, being games' master had come a good deal into
contact with Stanning, and had not been favourably impressed. The fact
was that the keynote of Sheen's character was a fear of giving offence.
Within limits this is not a reprehensible trait in a person's
character, but Sheen overdid it, and it frequently complicated his
affairs. There come times when one has to choose which of two people
one shall offend. By acting in one way, we offend A. By acting in the
opposite way, we annoy B. Sheen had found himself faced by this problem
when he began to be friendly with Drummond. Their acquaintance, begun
over a game of fives, had progressed. Sheen admired Drummond, as the
type of what he would have liked to have been, if he could have managed
it. And Drummond felt interested in Sheen because nobody knew much
about him. He was, in a way, mysterious. Also, he played the piano
really well; and Drummond at that time would have courted anybody who
could play for his benefit "Mumblin' Mose", and didn't mind obliging
with unlimited encores.
So the two struck up an alliance, and as Drummond hated Stanning only a
shade less than Stanning hated him, Sheen was under the painful
necessity of choosing between them. He chose Drummond. Whereby he
undoubtedly did wisely.
Sheen sat with his Thucydides over the gas-stove, and tried to interest
himself in the doings of the Athenian expedition at Syracuse. His brain
felt heavy and flabby. He realised dimly that this was because he took
too little exercise, and he made a resolution to diminish his hours of
work per diem by one, and to devote that one to fives. He would mention
it to Drummond when he came in. He would probably come in to tea. The
board was spread in anticipation of a visit from him. Herbert, the
boot-boy, had been despatched to the town earlier in the afternoon, and
had returned with certain food-stuffs which were now stacked in an
appetising heap on the table.
Sheen was just making something more or less like sense out of an
involved passage of Nikias' speech, in which that eminent general
himself seemed to have only a hazy idea of what he was talking about,
when the door opened.
He looked up, expecting to see Drummond, but it was Stanning. He felt
instantly that "warm shooting" sensation from which David Copperfield
suffered in moments of embarrassment. Since the advent of Drummond he
had avoided Stanning, and he could not see him without feeling
uncomfortable. As they were both in the sixth form, and sat within a
couple of yards of one another every day, it will be realised that he
was frequently uncomfortable.
"Great Scott!" said Stanning, "swotting?"
Sheen glanced almost guiltily at his Thucydides. Still, it was
something of a relief that the other had not opened the conversation
with an indictment of Drummond.
"You see," he said apologetically, "I'm in for the Gotford."
"So am _I_. What's the good of swotting, though? I'm not going to
do a stroke."
As Stanning was the only one of his rivals of whom he had any real
fear, Sheen might have replied with justice that, if that was the case,
the more he swotted the better. But he said nothing. He looked at the
stove, and dog's-eared the Thucydides.
"What a worm you are, always staying in!" said Stanning.
"I caught a cold watching the match yesterday."
"You're as flabby as--" Stanning looked round for a simile, "as a
dough-nut. Why don't you take some exercise?"
"I'm going to play fives, I think. I do need some exercise."
"Fives? Why don't you play footer?"
"I haven't time. I want to work."
"What rot. I'm not doing a stroke."
Stanning seemed to derive a spiritual pride from this admission.
"Tell you what, then," said Stanning, "I'll play you tomorrow after
school."
Sheen looked a shade more uncomfortable, but he made an effort, and
declined the invitation.
"I shall probably be playing Drummond," he said.
"Oh, all right," said Stanning. "_I_ don't care. Play whom you
like."
There was a pause.
"As a matter of fact," resumed Stanning, "what I came here for was to
tell you about last night. I got out, and went to Mitchell's. Why
didn't you come? Didn't you get my note? I sent a kid with it."
Mitchell was a young gentleman of rich but honest parents, who had left
the school at Christmas. He was in his father's office, and lived in
his father's house on the outskirts of the town. From time to time his
father went up to London on matters connected with business, leaving
him alone in the house. On these occasions Mitchell the younger would
write to Stanning, with whom when at school he had been on friendly
terms; and Stanning, breaking out of his house after everybody had gone
to bed, would make his way to the Mitchell residence, and spend a
pleasant hour or so there. Mitchell senior owned Turkish cigarettes and
a billiard table. Stanning appreciated both. There was also a piano,
and Stanning had brought Sheen with him one night to play it. The
getting-out and the subsequent getting-in had nearly whitened Sheen's
hair, and it was only by a series of miracles that he had escaped
detection. Once, he felt, was more than enough; and when a fag from
Appleby's had brought him Stanning's note, containing an invitation to
a second jaunt of the kind, he had refused to be lured into the
business again.
"Yes, I got the note," he said.
"Then why didn't you come? Mitchell was asking where you were."
"It's so beastly risky."
"Risky! Rot."
"We should get sacked if we were caught."
"Well, don't get caught, then."
Sheen registered an internal vow that he would not.
"He wanted us to go again on Monday. Will you come?"
"I--don't think I will, Stanning," said Sheen. "It isn't worth it."
"You mean you funk it. That's what's the matter with you."
"Yes, I do," admitted Sheen.
As a rule--in stories--the person who owns that he is afraid gets
unlimited applause and adulation, and feels a glow of conscious merit.
But with Sheen it was otherwise. The admission made him if possible,
more uncomfortable than he had been before.
"Mitchell will be sick," said Stanning.
Sheen said nothing.
Stanning changed the subject.
"Well, at anyrate," he said, "give us some tea. You seem to have been
victualling for a siege."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Sheen, turning a deeper shade of red and
experiencing a redoubled attack of the warm shooting, "but the fact is,
I'm waiting for Drummond."
Stanning got up, and expressed his candid opinion of Drummond in a few
words.
He said more. He described Sheen, too in unflattering terms.
"Look here," he said, "you may think it jolly fine to drop me just
because you've got to know Drummond a bit, but you'll be sick enough
that you've done it before you've finished."
"It isn't that--" began Sheen.
"I don't care what it is. You slink about trying to avoid me all day,
and you won't do a thing I ask you to do."
"But you see--"
"Oh, shut up," said Stanning.
III
SHEEN RECEIVES VISITORS AND ADVICE
While Sheen had been interviewing Stanning, in study twelve, farther
down the passage, Linton and his friend Dunstable, who was in Day's
house, were discussing ways and means. Like Stanning, Dunstable had
demanded tea, and had been informed that there was none for him.
"Well, you are a bright specimen, aren't you?" said Dunstable, seating
himself on the table which should have been groaning under the weight
of cake and biscuits. "I should like to know where you expect to go to.
You lure me in here, and then have the cheek to tell me you haven't got
anything to eat. What have you done with it all?"
"There was half a cake--"
"Bring it on."
"Young Menzies bagged it after the match yesterday. His brother came
down with the Oxford A team, and he had to give him tea in his study.
Then there were some biscuits--"
"What's the matter with biscuits? _They're_ all right. Bring them
on. Biscuits forward. Show biscuits."
"Menzies took them as well."
Dunstable eyed him sorrowfully.
"You always were a bit of a maniac," he said, "but I never thought you
were quite such a complete gibberer as to let Menzies get away with all
your grub. Well, the only thing to do is to touch him for tea. He owes
us one. Come on."
They proceeded down the passage and stopped at the door of study three.
"Hullo!" said Menzies, as they entered.
"We've come to tea," said Dunstable. "Cut the satisfying sandwich. Let's
see a little more of that hissing urn of yours, Menzies. Bustle about,
and be the dashing host."
"I wasn't expecting you."
"I can't help your troubles," said Dunstable.
"I've not got anything. I was thinking of coming to you, Linton."
"Where's that cake?"
"Finished. My brother simply walked into it."
"Greed," said Dunstable unkindly, "seems to be the besetting sin of the
Menzies'. Well, what are you going to do about it? I don't wish to
threaten, but I'm a demon when I'm roused. Being done out of my tea is
sure to rouse me. And owing to unfortunate accident of being stonily
broken, I can't go to the shop. You're responsible for the slump in
provisions, Menzies, and you must see us through this. What are you
going to do about it?"
"Do either of you chaps know Sheen at all?"
"I don't," said Linton. "Not to speak to."
"You can't expect us to know all your shady friends," said Dunstable.
"Why?"
"He's got a tea on this evening. If you knew him well enough, you might
borrow something from him. I met Herbert in the dinner-hour carrying in
all sorts of things to his study. Still, if you don't know him--"
"Don't let a trifle of that sort stand in the way," said Dunstable.
"Which is his study?"
"Come on, Linton," said Dunstable. "Be a man, and lead the way. Go in
as if he'd invited us. Ten to one he'll think he did, if you don't
spoil the thing by laughing."
"What, invite ourselves to tea?" asked Linton, beginning to grasp the
idea.
"That's it. Sheen's the sort of ass who won't do a thing. Anyhow, its
worth trying. Smith in our house got a tea out of him that way last
term. Coming, Menzies?"
"Not much. I hope he kicks you out."
"Come on, then, Linton. If Menzies cares to chuck away a square meal,
let him."
Thus, no sooner had the door of Sheen's study closed upon Stanning than
it was opened again to admit Linton and Dunstable.
"Well," said Linton, affably, "here we are."
"Hope we're not late," said Dunstable. "You said somewhere about five.
It's just struck. Shall we start?"
He stooped, and took the kettle from the stove.
"Don't you bother," he said to Sheen, who had watched this manoeuvre
with an air of amazement, "I'll do all the dirty work."
"But--" began Sheen.
"That's all right," said Dunstable soothingly. "I like it."
The intellectual pressure of the affair was too much for Sheen. He
could not recollect having invited Linton, with whom he had exchanged
only about a dozen words that term, much less Dunstable, whom he merely
knew by sight. Yet here they were, behaving like honoured guests. It
was plain that there was a misunderstanding somewhere, but he shrank
from grappling with it. He did not want to hurt their feelings. It
would be awkward enough if they discovered their mistake for
themselves.
So he exerted himself nervously to play the host, and the first twinge
of remorse which Linton felt came when Sheen pressed upon him a bag of
biscuits which, he knew, could not have cost less than one and sixpence
a pound. His heart warmed to one who could do the thing in such style.
Dunstable, apparently, was worried by no scruples. He leaned back
easily in his chair, and kept up a bright flow of conversation.
"You're not looking well, Sheen," he said. "You ought to take more
exercise. Why don't you come down town with us one of these days and do
a bit of canvassing? It's a rag. Linton lost a tooth at it the other
day. We're going down on Saturday to do a bit more."
"Oh!" said Sheen, politely.
"We shall get one or two more chaps to help next time. It isn't good
enough, only us two. We had four great beefy hooligans on to us when
Linton got his tooth knocked out. We had to run. There's a regular gang
of them going about the town, now that the election's on. A red-headed
fellow, who looks like a butcher, seems to boss the show. They call him
Albert. He'll have to be slain one of these days, for the credit of the
school. I should like to get Drummond on to him."
"I was expecting Drummond to tea," said Sheen.
"He's running and passing with the fifteen," said Linton. "He ought to
be in soon. Why, here he is. Hullo, Drummond!"
"Hullo!" said the newcomer, looking at his two fellow-visitors as if he
were surprised to see them there.
"How were the First?" asked Dunstable.
"Oh, rotten. Any tea left?"
Conversation flagged from this point, and shortly afterwards Dunstable
and Linton went.
"Come and tea with me some time," said Linton.
"Oh, thanks," said Sheen. "Thanks awfully."
"It was rather a shame," said Linton to Dunstable, as they went back to
their study, "rushing him like that. I shouldn't wonder if he's quite a
good sort, when one gets to know him."
"He must be a rotter to let himself be rushed. By Jove, I should like
to see someone try that game on with me."
In the study they had left, Drummond was engaged in pointing this out
to Sheen.
"The First are rank bad," he said. "The outsides were passing rottenly
today. We shall have another forty points taken off us when we play
Ripton. By the way, I didn't know you were a pal of Linton's."
"I'm not," said Sheen.
"Well, he seemed pretty much at home just now."
"I can't understand it. I'm certain I never asked him to tea. Or
Dunstable either. Yet they came in as if I had. I didn't like to hurt
their feelings by telling them."
Drummond stared.
"What, they came without being asked! Heavens! man, you must buck up a
bit and keep awake, or you'll have an awful time. Of course those two
chaps were simply trying it on. I had an idea it might be that when I
came in. Why did you let them? Why didn't you scrag them?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Sheen uncomfortably.
"But, look here, it's rot. You _must_ keep your end up in a place
like this, or everybody in the house'll be ragging you. Chaps will,
naturally, play the goat if you let them. Has this ever happened
before?"
Sheen admitted reluctantly that it had. He was beginning to see things.
It is never pleasant to feel one has been bluffed.
"Once last term," he said, "Smith, a chap in Day's, came to tea like
that. I couldn't very well do anything."
"And Dunstable is in Day's. They compared notes. I wonder you haven't
had the whole school dropping in on you, lining up in long queues down
the passage. Look here, Sheen, you really must pull yourself together.
I'm not ragging. You'll have a beastly time if you're so feeble. I hope
you won't be sick with me for saying it, but I can't help that. It's
all for your own good. And it's really pure slackness that's the cause
of it all."
"I hate hurting people's feelings," said Sheen.
"Oh, rot. As if anybody here had any feelings. Besides, it doesn't hurt
a chap's feelings being told to get out, when he knows he's no business
in a place."
"Oh, all right," said Sheen shortly.
"Glad you see it," said Drummond. "Well, I'm off. Wonder if there's
anybody in that bath."
He reappeared a few moments later. During his absence Sheen overheard
certain shrill protestations which were apparently being uttered in the
neighbourhood of the bathroom door.
"There was," he said, putting his head into the study and grinning
cheerfully at Sheen. "There was young Renford, who had no earthly
business to be there. I've just looked in to point the moral. Suppose
you'd have let him bag all the hot water, which ought to have come to
his elders and betters, for fear of hurting his feelings; and gone
without your bath. I went on my theory that nobody at Wrykyn, least of
all a fag, has any feelings. I turfed him out without a touch of
remorse. You get much the best results my way. So long."
And the head disappeared; and shortly afterwards there came from across
the passage muffled but cheerful sounds of splashing.
IV
THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR
The borough of Wrykyn had been a little unfortunate--or fortunate,
according to the point of view--in the matter of elections. The latter
point of view was that of the younger and more irresponsible section of
the community, which liked elections because they were exciting. The
former was that of the tradespeople, who disliked them because they got
their windows broken.
Wrykyn had passed through an election and its attendant festivities in
the previous year, when Sir Eustace Briggs, the mayor of the town, had
been returned by a comfortable majority. Since then ill-health had
caused that gentleman to resign his seat, and the place was once more
in a state of unrest. This time the school was deeply interested in the
matter. The previous election had not stirred them. They did not care
whether Sir Eustace Briggs defeated Mr Saul Pedder, or whether Mr Saul
Pedder wiped the political floor with Sir Eustace Briggs. Mr Pedder was
an energetic Radical; but owing to the fact that Wrykyn had always
returned a Conservative member, and did not see its way to a change as
yet, his energy had done him very little good. The school had looked on
him as a sportsman, and read his speeches in the local paper with
amusement; but they were not interested. Now, however, things were
changed. The Conservative candidate, Sir William Bruce, was one of
themselves--an Old Wrykinian, a governor of the school, a man who
always watched school-matches, and the donor of the Bruce Challenge Cup
for the school mile. In fine, one of the best. He was also the father
of Jack Bruce, a day-boy on the engineering side. The school would have
liked to have made a popular hero of Jack Bruce. If he had liked, he
could have gone about with quite a suite of retainers. But he was a
quiet, self-sufficing youth, and was rarely to be seen in public. The
engineering side of a public school has workshops and other weirdnesses
which keep it occupied after the ordinary school hours. It was
generally understood that Bruce was a good sort of chap if you knew
him, but you had got to know him first; brilliant at his work, and
devoted to it; a useful slow bowler; known to be able to drive and
repair the family motor-car; one who seldom spoke unless spoken to, but
who, when he did speak, generally had something sensible to say. Beyond
that, report said little.
As he refused to allow the school to work off its enthusiasm on him,
they were obliged to work it off elsewhere. Hence the disturbances
which had become frequent between school and town. The inflammatory
speeches of Mr Saul Pedder had caused a swashbuckling spirit to spread
among the rowdy element of the town. Gangs of youths, to adopt the
police-court term, had developed a habit of parading the streets
arm-in-arm, shouting "Good old Pedder!" When these met some person or
persons who did not consider Mr Pedder good and old, there was
generally what the local police-force described as a "frakkus".
It was in one of these frakkuses that Linton had lost a valuable tooth.
Two days had elapsed since Dunstable and Linton had looked in on Sheen
for tea. It was a Saturday afternoon, and roll-call was just over.
There was no first fifteen match, only a rather uninteresting
house-match, Templar's _versus_ Donaldson's, and existence in the
school grounds showed signs of becoming tame.
"What a beastly term the Easter term is," said Linton, yawning. "There
won't be a thing to do till the house-matches begin properly."
Seymour's had won their first match, as had Day's. They would not be
called upon to perform for another week or more.
"Let's get a boat out," suggested Dunstable.
"Such a beastly day."
"Let's have tea at the shop."
"Rather slow. How about going to Cook's?"
"All right. Toss you who pays."
Cook's was a shop in the town to which the school most resorted when in
need of refreshment.
"Wonder if we shall meet Albert."
Linton licked the place where his tooth should have been, and said he
hoped so.
Sergeant Cook, the six-foot proprietor of the shop, was examining a
broken window when they arrived, and muttering to himself.
"Hullo!" said Dunstable, "what's this? New idea for ventilation? Golly,
massa, who frew dat brick?"
"Done it at ar-parse six last night, he did," said Sergeant Cook, "the
red-'eaded young scallywag. Ketch 'im--I'll give 'im--"
"Sounds like dear old Albert," said Linton. "Who did it, sergeant?"
"Red-headed young mongrel. 'Good old Pedder,' he says. 'I'll give you
Pedder,' I says. Then bang it comes right on top of the muffins, and
when I doubled out after 'im 'e'd gone."
Mrs Cook appeared and corroborated witness's evidence. Dunstable
ordered tea.
"We may meet him on our way home," said Linton. "If we do, I'll give
him something from you with your love. I owe him a lot for myself."
Mrs Cook clicked her tongue compassionately at the sight of the obvious
void in the speaker's mouth.
"You'll 'ave to 'ave a forlse one, Mr Linton," said Sergeant Cook with
gloomy relish.
The back shop was empty. Dunstable and Linton sat down and began tea.
Sergeant Cook came to the door from time to time and dilated further on
his grievances.
"Gentlemen from the school they come in 'ere and says ain't it all a
joke and exciting and what not. But I says to them, you 'aven't got to
live in it, I says. That's what it is. You 'aven't got to live in it, I
says. Glad when it's all over, that's what I'll be."
"'Nother jug of hot water, please," said Linton.
The Sergeant shouted the order over his shoulder, as if he were
addressing a half-company on parade, and returned to his woes.
"You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. It's this
everlasting worry and flurry day in and day out, and not knowing what's
going to 'appen next, and one man coming in and saying 'Vote for
Bruce', and another 'Vote for Pedder', and another saying how it's the
poor man's loaf he's fighting for--if he'd only _buy_ a loaf,
now--'ullo, 'ullo, wot's this?"
There was a "confused noise without", as Shakespeare would put it, and
into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour's, closely
followed by Stanning and Attell.
"This is getting a bit too thick," said Barry, collapsing into a chair.
From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook.
"Let me jest come to you, you red-'eaded--"
Roars of derision from the road.
"That's Albert," said Linton, jumping up.
"Yes, I heard them call him that," said Barry. "McTodd and I were
coming down here to tea, when they started going for us, so we nipped
in here, hoping to find reinforcements."
"We were just behind you," said Stanning. "I got one of them a beauty.
He went down like a shot."
"Albert?" inquired Linton.
"No. A little chap."
"Let's go out, and smash them up," suggested Linton excitedly.
Dunstable treated the situation more coolly.
"Wait a bit," he said. "No hurry. Let's finish tea at any rate. You'd
better eat as much as you can now Linton. You may have no teeth left to
do it with afterwards," he added cheerfully.
"Let's chuck things at them," said McTodd.
"Don't be an ass," said Barry. "What on earth's the good of that?"
"Well, it would be something," said McTodd vaguely.
"Hit 'em with a muffin," suggested Stanning. "Dash, I barked my
knuckles on that man. But I bet he felt it."
"Look here, I'm going out," said Linton. "Come on, Dunstable."
Dunstable continued his meal without hurry.
"What's the excitement?" he said. "There's plenty of time. Dear old
Albert's not the sort of chap to go away when he's got us cornered
here. The first principle of warfare is to get a good feed before you
start."
"And anyhow," said Barry, "I came here for tea, and I'm going to have
it."
Sergeant Cook was recalled from the door, and received the orders.
"They've just gone round the corner," he said, "and that red-'eaded one
'e says he's goin' to wait if he 'as to wait all night."
"Quite right," said Dunstable, approvingly. "Sensible chap, Albert. If
you see him, you might tell him we shan't be long, will you?"
A quarter of an hour passed.
"Kerm out," shouted a voice from the street.
Dunstable looked at the others.
"Perhaps we might be moving now," he said, getting up "Ready?"
"We must keep together," said Barry.
"You goin' out, Mr Dunstable?" inquired Sergeant Cook.
"Yes. Good bye. You'll see that we're decently buried won't you?"
The garrison made its sortie.
* * * * *
It happened that Drummond and Sheen were also among those whom it had
struck that afternoon that tea at Cook's would be pleasant; and they
came upon the combatants some five minutes after battle had been
joined. The town contingent were filling the air with strange cries,
Albert's voice being easily heard above the din, while the Wrykinians,
as public-school men should, were fighting quietly and without unseemly
tumult.
"By Jove," said Drummond, "here's a row on."
Sheen stopped dead, with a queer, sinking feeling within him. He
gulped. Drummond did not notice these portents. He was observing the
battle.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.
"Why, it's some of our chaps! There's a Seymour's cap. Isn't that
McTodd? And, great Scott! there's Barry. Come on, man!"
Sheen did not move.
"Ought we...to get...mixed up...?" he began.
Drummond looked at him with open eyes. Sheen babbled on.
"The old man might not like--sixth form, you see--oughtn't we to--?"
There was a yell of triumph from the town army as the red-haired
Albert, plunging through the fray, sent Barry staggering against the
wall. Sheen caught a glimpse of Albert's grinning face as he turned. He
had a cut over one eye. It bled.
"Come on," said Drummond, beginning to run to the scene of action.
Sheen paused for a moment irresolutely. Then he walked rapidly in the
opposite direction.
V
THE WHITE FEATHER
It was not until he had reached his study that Sheen thoroughly
realised what he had done. All the way home he had been defending
himself eloquently against an imaginary accuser; and he had built up a
very sound, thoughtful, and logical series of arguments to show that he
was not only not to blame for what he had done, but had acted in highly
statesmanlike and praiseworthy manner. After all, he was in the sixth.
Not a prefect, it was true, but, still, practically a prefect. The
headmaster disliked unpleasantness between school and town, much more
so between the sixth form of the school and the town. Therefore, he had
done his duty in refusing to be drawn into a fight with Albert and
friends. Besides, why should he be expected to join in whenever he saw
a couple of fellows fighting? It wasn't reasonable. It was no business
of his. Why, it was absurd. He had no quarrel with those fellows. It
wasn't cowardice. It was simply that he had kept his head better than
Drummond, and seen further into the matter. Besides....
But when he sat down in his chair, this mood changed. There is a vast
difference between the view one takes of things when one is walking
briskly, and that which comes when one thinks the thing over coldly. As
he sat there, the wall of defence which he had built up slipped away
brick by brick, and there was the fact staring at him, without covering
or disguise.
It was no good arguing against himself. No amount of argument could
wipe away the truth. He had been afraid, and had shown it. And he had
shown it when, in a sense, he was representing the school, when Wrykyn
looked to him to help it keep its end up against the town.
The more he reflected, the more he saw how far-reaching were the
consequences of that failure in the hour of need. He had disgraced
himself. He had disgraced Seymour's. He had disgraced the school. He
was an outcast.
This mood, the natural reaction from his first glow of almost jaunty
self-righteousness, lasted till the lock-up bell rang, when it was
succeeded by another. This time he took a more reasonable view of the
affair. It occurred to him that there was a chance that his defection
had passed unnoticed. Nothing could make his case seem better in his
own eyes, but it might be that the thing would end there. The house
might not have lost credit.
An overwhelming curiosity seized him to find out how it had all ended.
The ten minutes of grace which followed the ringing of the lock-up bell
had passed. Drummond and the rest must be back by now.
He went down the passage to Drummond's study. Somebody was inside. He
could hear him.
He knocked at the door.
Drummond was sitting at the table reading. He looked up, and there was
a silence. Sheen's mouth felt dry. He could not think how to begin. He
noticed that Drummond's face was unmarked. Looking down, he saw that
one of the knuckles of the hand that held the book was swollen and cut.
"Drummond, I--"
Drummond lowered the book.
"Get out," he said. He spoke without heat, calmly, as if he were making
some conventional remark by way of starting a conversation.
"I only came to ask--"
"Get out," said Drummond again.
There was another pause. Drummond raised his book and went on reading.
Sheen left the room.
Outside he ran into Linton. Unlike Drummond, Linton bore marks of the
encounter. As in the case of the hero of Calverley's poem, one of his
speaking eyes was sable. The swelling of his lip was increased. There
was a deep red bruise on his forehead. In spite of these injuries,
however, he was cheerful. He was whistling when Sheen collided with
him.
"Sorry," said Linton, and went on into the study.
"Well," he said, "how are you feeling, Drummond? Lucky beggar, you
haven't got a mark. I wish I could duck like you. Well, we have fought
the good fight. Exit Albert--sweep him up. You gave him enough to last
him for the rest of the term. I couldn't tackle the brute. He's as
strong as a horse. My word, it was lucky you happened to come up.
Albert was making hay of us. Still, all's well that ends well. We have
smitten the Philistines this day. By the way--"
"What's up now?"
"Who was that chap with you when you came up?"
"Which chap?"
"I thought I saw some one."
"You shouldn't eat so much tea. You saw double."
"There wasn't anybody?"
"No," said Drummond.
"Not Sheen?"
"No," said Drummond, irritably. "How many more times do you want me to
say it?"
"All right," said Linton, "I only asked. I met him outside."
"Who?"
"Sheen."
"Oh!"
"You might be sociable."
"I know I might. But I want to read."
"Lucky man. Wish I could. I can hardly see. Well, good bye, then. I'm
off."
"Good," grunted Drummond. "You know your way out, don't you?"
Linton went back to his own study.
"It's all very well," he said to himself, "for Drummond to deny it, but
I'll swear I saw Sheen with him. So did Dunstable. I'll cut out and ask
him about it after prep. If he really was there, and cut off, something
ought to be done about it. The chap ought to be kicked. He's a disgrace
to the house."
Dunstable, questioned after preparation, refused to commit himself.
"I thought I saw somebody with Drummond," he said, "and I had a sort of
idea it was Sheen. Still, I was pretty busy at the time, and wasn't
paying much attention to anything, except that long, thin bargee with
the bowler. I wish those men would hit straight. It's beastly difficult
to guard a round-arm swing. My right ear feels like a cauliflower. Does
it look rum?"
"Beastly. But what about this? You can't swear to Sheen then?"
"No. Better give him the benefit of the doubt. What does Drummond say?
You ought to ask him."
"I have. He says he was alone."
"Well, that settles it. What an ass you are. If Drummond doesn't know,
who does?"
"I believe he's simply hushing it up."
"Well, let us hush it up, too. It's no good bothering about it. We
licked them all right."
"But it's such a beastly thing for the house."
"Then why the dickens do you want it to get about? Surely the best
thing you can do is to dry up and say nothing about it."
"But something ought to be done."