The scene has changed. Stilled is the crow of Neil, for he is now but
one of the lowliest at a great public school, where he reverberates but
little. The scug Neil fearfully running errands for his fag-master is
another melancholy reminder of the brevity of human greatness.
Lately a Colossus he was now infinitely less than nothing. What shook
him was not the bump as he fell, but the general indifference to his
having fallen. He lay there like a bird in the grass winded by a
blunt-headed arrow, and was cold to his own touch. The Bruiser Belt and
his score against Juddy’s had accompanied him to school on their own
legs, one might say, so confident were they of a welcome from his
mantelshelf, but after an hour he hid them beneath the carpet. Hidden by
him all over that once alluring room, as in disgrace, were many other
sweet trifles that went to the making of the flame that had been Neil;
his laugh was secreted, say in the drawer of his desk; his pranks were
stuffed into his hat-box, his fell ambitions were folded away between
two pairs of trousers, and now and then a tear would mix with the soapy
water as he washed his cheerless face.
In that dreadful month or more I am dug up by his needs and come again
into prominence, gloating because he calls for me, sometimes unable to
do more than stand afar off on the playing field, so that he may at
least see me nigh though we cannot touch. The thrill of being the one
needed, which I had never thought to know again. I have leant over a
bridge, and enviously watching the gaiety of two attractive boys, now
broken to the ways of school, have wished he was one of them, till I
heard their language and wondered whether this was part of the necessary
cost.
Leaden-footed Neil in the groves that were to become so joyous to him.
He had to refashion himself on a harsher model, and he set his teeth and
won, blaming me a little for not having broken to him the ugly world we
can make it. One by one his hidden parts peeped out from their holes and
ran to him, once more to make his wings; stronger wings than of yore,
though some drops of dew had to be shaken off.
By that time my visits were being suffered rather than acclaimed. It was
done with an exquisite politeness certainly, but before I was out of
sight he had dived into some hilarious rumpus. Gladly for his sake I
knew my place.
His first distinct success was as a gargler.
[Illustration: “WE GENERALLY GARGLE A SONG”]
“You remember how I used to hate gargling at home,” says an early
letter, “and you forced me to do it. Jolly good thing you did force me.”
His first “jolly” at that school. At once I began to count them.
“Everyone has to gargle just now,” he continues, “and we all do it at
the same time, and it must sound awfully rum to people passing along the
street. We generally gargle a song, and there was a competition in
‘Home, sweet Home’ among the scugs at m’ tutor’s, and the judge said I
gargled it longest.”
Soon afterwards he had the exultation of being recognised as an entity
by one of the masters.
“I was walking with Dolman mi.,” his letter says, “and we met a new beak
called Tiverley and he pretended to fence with me and said ‘Whose
incomparable little noodle are you?’” This, apparently, was all that
happened, but Neil adds with obvious elation, “It was awfully decent of
him.” (Hail to thee, Tiverley, may “a house” anon be thy portion for
heartening a new boy in the dwindling belief that he exists.)
Dolman mi. evidently had no run on this occasion, but he is older and
more famous than Neil (which makes the thing the more flattering). It is
a school whither many royal scions are sent, and when camera men go down
to photograph the new one, Dolman mi. usually takes his place. He has
already been presented to newspaper readers as the heir to three
thrones. Of course it is the older boys who select, scrape and colour
him (if necessary) for this purpose, but they must see something in him
that the smaller boys don’t see.
Neil’s next step was almost a bound forward; he got a tanning from the
head of the house. This also he took in the proper spirit, boasting
indeed of the vigour with which Beverley had laid on. (Thee, also,
Beverley, I salute, as the Immensity who raised Neil from the ranks of
the lowly, the untanned.)
Quite the amiable, sensible little schoolboy, readers may be saying, but
that Neil was amiable or sensible I indignantly deny. He was merely
waiting; that shapely but enquiring nose of his was only considering how
best to strike once more for leadership. So when the time came he was
ready; and he has been striking ever since, indeed, there is nothing
that I think he so much resembles as a clock that has got out of hand.
All the other small boys in his house had the same opportunity, but they
missed it. It was provided by some learned man (name already tossed to
oblivion) who delivered unto them a lecture entitled _Help One Another_.
The others behaved in the usual way, cheered the lecturer heartily when
he took a drink of water, said “Silly old owl!” as they went out and at
once forgot his Message. Not so Neil. With the clearness of vision that
always comes to him when anything to his own advantage is toward, he saw
that the time and the place and the loved one (himself) had arrived
together. Portents in the sky revealed to him that his _métier_ at
school was to Help Others. There would be something sublime about it had
he not also seen with the same vividness that he must make a pecuniary
charge of threepence. He decided astutely to begin with W. W. Daly.
As we write these words an extraordinary change comes over our
narrative. In the dead silence that follows this announcement to our
readers you may hear, if you listen intently, a scurrying of feet, which
is nothing less than Neil being chased out of the story. The situation
is one probably unparalleled in fiction.