let me tell him that I have left the block in my time, and entered it,
too, though never, it is true, in the company of a master, in other
ways. There are windows.

Our procession of two, Mellish leading by a couple of yards, passed
through the cloisters, and came to the middle block, where the Masters'
Common Room is. I had no particular reason for going to that block, but
it was all on my way to the House, and I knew that Mellish hated having
his footsteps dogged. That Thucydides paper rankled slightly.

In the middle block, at the top of the building, far from the haunts of
men, is the Science Museum, containing - so I have heard, I have never
been near the place myself - two stuffed rats, a case of mouldering
butterflies, and other objects of acute interest. The room has a
staircase all to itself, and this was the reason why, directly I heard
shouts proceeding from that staircase, I deduced that they came from
the Museum. I am like Sherlock Holmes, I don't mind explaining my
methods.

'Help!' shouted the voice. 'Help!'

The voice was Bradshaw's.

Mellish was talking to M. Gerard, the French master, at the moment. He
had evidently been telling him of Bradshaw's non-appearance, for at the
sound of his voice they both spun round, and stood looking at the
staircase like a couple of pointers.

'Help,' cried the voice again.

Mellish and Gerard bounded up the stairs. I had never seen a French
master run before. It was a pleasant sight. I followed. As we reached
the door of the Museum, which was shut, renewed shouts filtered through
it. Mellish gave tongue.

'Bradshaw!'

'Yes, sir,' from within.

'Are you there?' This I thought, and still think, quite a superfluous
question.

'Yes, sir,' said Bradshaw.

'What are you doing in there, Bradshaw? Why were you not in school this
afternoon? Come out at once.' This in deep and thrilling tones.

'Please, sir,' said Bradshaw complainingly, 'I can't open the door.'
Now, the immediate effect of telling a person that you are unable to
open a door is to make him try his hand at it. Someone observes that
there are three things which everyone thinks he can do better than
anyone else, namely poking a fire, writing a novel, and opening a door.

Gerard was no exception to the rule.

'Can't open the door?' he said. 'Nonsense, nonsense.' And, swooping at
the handle, he grasped it firmly, and turned it.

At this point he made an attempt, a very spirited attempt, to lower the
world's record for the standing high jump. I have spoken above of the
pleasure it gave me to see a French master run. But for good, square
enjoyment, warranted free from all injurious chemicals, give me a
French master jumping.

'My dear Gerard,' said the amazed Mellish.

'I have received a shock. Dear me, I have received a most terrible
shock.'

So had I, only of another kind. I really thought I should have expired
in my tracks with the effort of keeping my enjoyment strictly to
myself. I saw what had happened. The Museum is lit by electric light.
To turn it on one has to shoot the bolt of the door, which, like the
handle, is made of metal. It is on the killing two birds with one stone
principle. You lock yourself in and light yourself up with one
movement. It was plain that the current had gone wrong somehow, run
amock, as it were. Mellish meanwhile, instead of being warned by
Gerard's fate, had followed his example, and tried to turn the handle.
His jump, though quite a creditable effort, fell short of Gerard's by
some six inches. I began to feel as if some sort of round game were
going on. I hoped that they would not want me to take a hand. I also
hoped that the thing would continue for a good while longer. The
success of the piece certainly warranted the prolongation of its run.
But here I was disappointed. The disturbance had attracted another
spectator, Blaize, the science and chemistry master. The matter was
hastily explained to him in all its bearings. There was Bradshaw
entombed within the Museum, with every prospect of death by starvation,
unless he could support life for the next few years on the two stuffed
rats and the case of butterflies. The authorities did not see their way
to adding a human specimen (youth's size) to the treasures in the
Museum, _so_ - how was he to be got out?

The scientific mind is equal to every emergency.

'Bradshaw,' shouted Blaize through the keyhole.

'Sir?'

'Are you there?'

I should imagine that Bradshaw was growing tired of this question by
this time. Besides, it cast aspersions on the veracity of Gerard and
Mellish. Bradshaw, with perfect politeness, hastened to inform the
gentleman that he was there.

'Have you a piece of paper?'

'Will an envelope do, sir?'

'Bless the boy, anything will do so long as it is paper.'

Dear me, I thought, is it as bad as all that? Is Blaize, in despair of
ever rescuing the unfortunate prisoner, going to ask him to draw up a
'last dying words' document, to be pushed under the door and despatched
to his sorrowing guardian?

'Put it over your hand, and then shoot back the bolt.'

'But, sir, the electricity.'

'Pooh, boy!'

The scientific mind is always intolerant of lay ignorance.

'Pooh, boy, paper is a non-conductor. You won't get hurt.'

Bradshaw apparently acted on his instructions. From the other side of
the door came the sharp sound of the bolt as it was shot back, and at
the same time the light ceased to shine through the keyhole. A moment
later the handle turned, and Bradshaw stepped forth - free!

'Dear me,' said Mellish. 'Now I never knew that before, Blaize.
Remarkable. But this ought to be seen to. In the meantime, I had better
ask the Headmaster to give out that the Museum is closed until further
notice, I think.'

And closed the Museum has been ever since. That further notice has
never been given. And yet nobody seems to feel as if an essential part
of their life had ceased to be, so to speak. Curious. Bradshaw, after a
short explanation, was allowed to go away without a stain - that is to
say, without any additional stain - on his character. We left the
authorities discussing the matter, and went downstairs.

'Sixpence isn't enough,' I said, 'take this penny. It's all I've got.
You shall have the sixpence on Saturday.'

'Thanks,' said Bradshaw.' Was the Thucydides paper pretty warm?'

'Warmish. But, I say, didn't you get a beastly shock when you locked
the door?'

'I did the week before last, the first time I ever went to the place.
This time I was more or less prepared for it. Blaize seems to think
that paper dodge a special invention of his own. He'll be taking out a
patent for it one of these days. Why, every kid knows that paper
doesn't conduct electricity.'

'I didn't,' I said honestly.

'You don't know much,' said Bradshaw, with equal honesty.

'I don't,' I replied. 'Bradshaw, you're a great man, but you missed the
best part of it all.'

'What, the Thucydides paper?' asked he with a grin.

'No, you missed seeing Gerard jump quite six feet.'

Bradshaw's face expressed keen disappointment.

'No, did he really? Oh, I say, I wish I'd seen it.'

The moral of which is that the wicked do not always prosper. If
Bradshaw had not been in the Museum, he might have seen Gerard jump six
feet, which would have made him happy for weeks. On second thoughts,
though, that does not work out quite right, for if Bradshaw had not
been in the Museum, Gerard would not have jumped at all. No, better put
it this way. I was virtuous, and I had the pleasure of witnessing the
sight I have referred to. But then there was the Thucydides paper,
which Bradshaw missed but which I did not. No. On consideration, the
moral of this story shall be withdrawn and submitted to a committee of
experts. Perhaps they will be able to say what it is.


[7]

THE BABE AND THE DRAGON


The annual inter-house football cup at St Austin's lay between Dacre's,
who were the holders, and Merevale's, who had been runner-up in the
previous year, and had won it altogether three times out of the last
five. The cup was something of a tradition in Merevale's, but of late
Dacre's had become serious rivals, and, as has been said before, were
the present holders.

This year there was not much to choose between the two teams. Dacre's
had three of the First Fifteen and two of the Second; Merevale's two of
the First and four of the Second. St Austin's being not altogether a
boarding-school, many of the brightest stars of the teams were day
boys, and there was, of course, always the chance that one of these
would suddenly see the folly of his ways, reform, and become a member
of a House.

This frequently happened, and this year it was almost certain to happen
again, for no less a celebrity than MacArthur, commonly known as the
Babe, had been heard to state that he was negotiating with his parents
to that end. Which House he would go to was at present uncertain. He
did not know himself, but it would, he said, probably be one of the two
favourites for the cup. This lent an added interest to the competition,
for the presence of the Babe would almost certainly turn the scale. The
Babe's nationality was Scots, and, like most Scotsmen, he could play
football more than a little. He was the safest, coolest centre
three-quarter the School had, or had had for some time. He shone in all
branches of the game, but especially in tackling. To see the Babe
spring apparently from nowhere, in the middle of an inter-school match,
and bring down with violence a man who had passed the back, was an
intellectual treat. Both Dacre's and Merevale's, therefore, yearned for
his advent exceedingly. The reasons which finally decided his choice
were rather curious. They arose in the following manner:

The Babe's sister was at Girton. A certain Miss Florence Beezley was
also at Girton. When the Babe's sister revisited the ancestral home at
the end of the term, she brought Miss Beezley with her to spend a week.
What she saw in Miss Beezley was to the Babe a matter for wonder, but
she must have liked her, or she would not have gone out of her way to
seek her company. Be that as it may, the Babe would have gone a very
long way out of his way to avoid her company. He led a fine, healthy,
out-of-doors life during that week, and doubtless did himself a lot of
good. But times will occur when it is imperative that a man shall be
under the family roof. Meal-times, for instance. The Babe could not
subsist without food, and he was obliged, Miss Beezley or no Miss
Beezley, to present himself on these occasions. This, by the way, was
in the Easter holidays, so that there was no school to give him an
excuse for absence.

Breakfast was a nightmare, lunch was rather worse, and as for dinner,
it was quite unspeakable. Miss Beezley seemed to gather force during
the day. It was not the actual presence of the lady that revolted the
Babe, for that was passable enough. It was her conversation that
killed. She refused to let the Babe alone. She was intensely learned
herself, and seemed to take a morbid delight in dissecting his
ignorance, and showing everybody the pieces. Also, she persisted in
calling him Mr MacArthur in a way that seemed somehow to point out and
emphasize his youthfulness. She added it to her remarks as a sort of
after-thought or echo.

'Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?' she would say suddenly, having
apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full.

The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say -

'No, not much.'

'Ah!' This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.

'When you say "not much", Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have
you read any of his poems?'

'Oh, yes, one or two.'

'Ah! Have you read "Pippa Passes"?'

'No, I think not.'

'Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you
read "Fifine at the Fair"?'

'No.'

'Have you read "Sordello"?'

'No.'

'What _have_ you read, Mr MacArthur?'

Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read
'The Pied Piper of Hamelin', and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley
would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe's subsequent
share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further
onslaught, was not large.

One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a
series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch
together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he
was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost
swooned. The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style of
carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of
carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name
of 'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took
hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other,
and pulled.

But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird
out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute.
Stifling a mad inclination to call out 'Fore!' or something to that
effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant
fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked
permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the
chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe re-seated himself in an
over-wrought state.

'Tell me about St Austin's, Mr MacArthur,' said Miss Beezley, as the
Babe was trying to think of something to say - not about the weather.
'Do you play football?'

'Yes.'

'Ah!'

A prolonged silence.

'Do you - ' began the Babe at last.

'Tell me - ' began Miss Beezley, simultaneously.

'I beg your pardon,' said the Babe; 'you were saying - ?'

'Not at all, Mr MacArthur. _You_ were saying - ?'

'I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?'

'Yes; do you?'

'No.'

'Ah!'

'If this is going to continue,' thought the Babe, 'I shall be
reluctantly compelled to commit suicide.'

There was another long pause.

'Tell me the names of some of the masters at St Austin's, Mr
MacArthur,' said Miss Beezley. She habitually spoke as if she were an
examination paper, and her manner might have seemed to some to verge
upon the autocratic, but the Babe was too thankful that the question
was not on Browning or the higher algebra to notice this. He reeled off
a list of names.

'... Then there's Merevale - rather a decent sort - and Dacre.'

'What sort of a man is Mr Dacre?'

'Rather a rotter, I think.'

'What is a rotter, Mr MacArthur?'

'Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly. He doesn't play cricket
or anything. He's generally considered rather a crock.'

'Really! This is very interesting, Mr MacArthur. And what is a crock? I
suppose what it comes to,' she added, as the Babe did his best to find
a definition, 'is this, that you yourself dislike him.' The Babe
admitted the impeachment. Mr Dacre had a finished gift of sarcasm which
had made him writhe on several occasions, and sarcastic masters are
rarely very popular.

'Ah!' said Miss Beezley. She made frequent use of that monosyllable. It
generally gave the Babe the same sort of feeling as he had been
accustomed to experience in the happy days of his childhood when he had
been caught stealing jam.

Miss Beezley went at last, and the Babe felt like a convict who has
just received a free pardon.

One afternoon in the following term he was playing fives with
Charteris, a prefect in Merevale's House. Charteris was remarkable from
the fact that he edited and published at his own expense an unofficial
and highly personal paper, called _The Glow Worm_, which was a
great deal more in demand than the recognized School magazine, _The
Austinian_, and always paid its expenses handsomely.

Charteris had the journalistic taint very badly. He was always the
first to get wind of any piece of School news. On this occasion he was
in possession of an exclusive item. The Babe was the first person to
whom he communicated it.

'Have you heard the latest romance in high life, Babe?' he observed, as
they were leaving the court. 'But of course you haven't. You never do
hear anything.'

'Well?' asked the Babe, patiently.

'You know Dacre?'

'I seem to have heard the name somewhere.'

'He's going to be married.'

'Yes. Don't trouble to try and look interested. You're one of those
offensive people who mind their own business and nobody else's. Only I
thought I'd tell you. Then you'll have a remote chance of understanding
my quips on the subject in next week's _Glow Worm_. You laddies
frae the north have to be carefully prepared for the subtler flights of
wit.'

'Thanks,' said the Babe, placidly. 'Good-night.'

The Headmaster intercepted the Babe a few days after he was going home
after a scratch game of football. 'MacArthur,' said he, 'you pass Mr
Dacre's House, do you not, on your way home? Then would you mind asking
him from me to take preparation tonight? I find I shall be unable to be
there.' It was the custom at St Austin's for the Head to preside at
preparation once a week; but he performed this duty, like the
celebrated Irishman, as often as he could avoid it.

The Babe accepted the commission. He was shown into the drawing-room.
To his consternation, for he was not a society man, there appeared to
be a species of tea-party going on. As the door opened, somebody was
just finishing a remark.

'... faculty which he displayed in such poems as "Sordello",' said the
voice.

The Babe knew that voice.

He would have fled if he had been able, but the servant was already
announcing him. Mr Dacre began to do the honours.

'Mr MacArthur and I have met before,' said Miss Beezley, for it was
she. 'Curiously enough, the subject which we have just been discussing
is one in which he takes, I think, a great interest. I was saying, Mr
MacArthur, when you came in, that few of Tennyson's works show the
poetic faculty which Browning displays in "Sordello".'

The Babe looked helplessly at Mr Dacre.

'I think you are taking MacArthur out of his depth there,' said Mr
Dacre. 'Was there something you wanted to see me about, MacArthur?'

The Babe delivered his message.

'Oh, yes, certainly,' said Mr Dacre. 'Shall you be passing the School
House tonight? If so, you might give the Headmaster my compliments, and
say I shall be delighted.'

The Babe had had no intention of going out of his way to that extent,
but the chance of escape offered by the suggestion was too good to be
missed. He went.

On his way he called at Merevale's, and asked to see Charteris.

'Look here, Charteris,' he said, 'you remember telling me that Dacre
was going to be married?'

'Yes.'

'Well, do you know her name by any chance?'

'I ken it weel, ma braw Hielander. She is a Miss Beezley.'

'Great Scott!' said the Babe.

'Hullo! Why, was your young heart set in that direction? You amaze and
pain me, Babe. I think we'd better have a story on the subject in
_The Glow Worm_, with you as hero and Dacre as villain. It shall
end happily, of course. I'll write it myself.'

'You'd better,' said the Babe, grimly. 'Oh, I say, Charteris.'

'Well?'

'When I come as a boarder, I shall be a House-prefect, shan't I, as I'm
in the Sixth?'

'Yes.'

'And prefects have to go to breakfast and supper, and that sort of
thing, pretty often with the House-beak, don't they?'

'Such are the facts of the case.'

'Thanks. That's all. Go away and do some work. Good-night.'

The cup went to Merevale's that year. The Babe played a singularly
brilliant game for them.


[8]

THE MANOEUVRES OF CHARTERIS


_Chapter 1_

'Might I observe, sir - '

'You may observe whatever you like,' said the referee kindly.
'Twenty-five.'

'The rules say - '

'I have given my decision. Twenty-_five_!' A spot of red appeared
on the official cheek. The referee, who had been heckled since the
kick-off, was beginning to be annoyed.

'The ball went behind without bouncing, and the rules say - '

'Twenty-FIVE!!' shouted the referee. 'I am perfectly well aware what
the rules say.' And he blew his whistle with an air of finality. The
secretary of the Bargees' F.C. subsided reluctantly, and the game was
restarted.

The Bargees' match was a curious institution. Their real name was the
Old Crockfordians. When, a few years before, the St Austin's secretary
had received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where their
secretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows:
'This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford.
Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they're certain
to be decent fellows.' And he arranged the fixture. It then transpired
that Old Crockford was a village, and, from the appearance of the team
on the day of battle, the Old Crockfordians seemed to be composed
exclusively of the riff-raff of same. They wore green shirts with a
bright yellow leopard over the heart, and C.F.C. woven in large letters
about the chest. One or two of the outsides played in caps, and the
team to a man criticized the referee's decisions with point and
pungency. Unluckily, the first year saw a weak team of Austinians
rather badly beaten, with the result that it became a point of honour
to wipe this off the slate before the fixture could be cut out of the
card. The next year was also unlucky. The Bargees managed to score a
penalty goal in the first half, and won on that. The match resulted in
a draw in the following season, and by this time the thing had become
an annual event.

Now, however, the School was getting some of its own back. The Bargees
had brought down a player of some reputation from the North, and were
as strong as ever in the scrum. But St Austin's had a great team, and
were carrying all before them. Charteris and Graham at half had the
ball out to their centres in a way which made Merevale, who looked
after the football of the School, feel that life was worth living. And
when once it was out, things happened rapidly. MacArthur, the captain
of the team, with Thomson as his fellow-centre, and Welch and Bannister
on the wings, did what they liked with the Bargees' three-quarters. All
the School outsides had scored, even the back, who dropped a neat goal.
The player from the North had scarcely touched the ball during the
whole game, and altogether the Bargees were becoming restless and
excited.

The kick-off from the twenty-five line which followed upon the small
discussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinary
circumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game original
methods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow,
and went away down the touch-line. He was almost through when he
stumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass,
someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent was
muscular. He was swung off his feet, and the next moment the two came
down together, Graham underneath. A sharp pain shot through his
shoulder.

A doctor emerged from the crowd - there is always a doctor in a
crowd - and made an examination.

'Anything bad?' asked the referee.

'Collar-bone,' said the doctor. 'The usual, you know. Rather badly
smashed. Nothing dangerous, of course. Be all right in a month or so.
Stop his playing. Rather a pity. Much longer before half-time?'

'No. I was just going to blow the whistle when this happened.'

The injured warrior was carried off, and the referee blew his whistle
for half-time.

'I say, Charteris,' said MacArthur, 'who the deuce am I to put half
instead of Graham?'

'Rogers used to play half in his childhood, I believe. But, I say, did
you ever see such a scrag? Can't you protest, or something?'

'My dear chap, how can I? It's on our own ground. These Bargee beasts
are visitors, if you come to think of it. I'd like to wring the chap's
neck who did it. I didn't spot who it was. Did you see?'

'Rather. Their secretary. That man with the beard. I'll get Prescott to
mark him this half.'

Prescott was the hardest tackler in the School. He accepted the
commission cheerfully, and promised to do his best by the bearded one.

Charteris certainly gave him every opportunity. When he threw the ball
out of touch, he threw it neatly to the criminal with the beard, and
Prescott, who stuck to him closer than a brother, had generally tackled
him before he knew what had happened. After a time he began to grow
thoughtful, and when there was a line-out went and stood among the
three-quarters. In this way much of Charteris's righteous retribution
miscarried, but once or twice he had the pleasure and privilege of
putting in a piece of tackling on his own account. The match ended with
the enemy still intact, but considerably shaken. He was also rather
annoyed. He spoke to Charteris on the subject as they were leaving the
field.

'I was watching you,' he said, _apropos_ of nothing apparently.

'That must have been nice for you,' said Charteris.

'You wait.'

'Certainly. Any time you're passing, I'm sure - '

'You ain't 'eard the last of me yet.'

'That's something of a blow,' said Charteris cheerfully, and they
parted.

Charteris, having got into his blazer, ran after Welch and MacArthur,
and walked back with them to the House. All three of them were at
Merevale's.

'Poor old Tony,' said MacArthur. 'Where have they taken him to? The
House?'

'Yes,' said Welch. 'I say, Babe, you ought to scratch this match next
year. Tell 'em the card's full up or something.'

'Oh, I don't know. One expects fairly rough play in this sort of game.
After all, we tackle pretty hard ourselves. I know I always try and go
my hardest. If the man happens to be brittle, that's his lookout,'
concluded the bloodthirsty Babe.

'My dear man,' said Charteris, 'there's all the difference between a
decent tackle and a bally scrag like the one that doubled Tony up. You
can't break a chap's collar-bone without trying to.'

'Well, if you come to think of it, I suppose the man must have been
fairly riled. You can't expect a man to be in an angelic temper when
his side's been licked by thirty points.'

The Babe was one of those thoroughly excellent persons who always try,
when possible, to make allowances for everybody.

'Well, dash it,' said Charteris indignantly, 'if he had lost his hair
he might have drawn the line at falling on Tony like that. It wasn't
the tackling part of it that crocked him. The beast simply jumped on
him like a Hooligan. Anyhow, I made him sit up a bit before we
finished. I gave Prescott the tip to mark him out of touch. Have you
ever been collared by Prescott? It's a liberal education. Now, there
you are, you see. Take Prescott. He's never crocked a man seriously in
his life. I don't count being winded. That's absolutely an accident.
Well, there you are, then. Prescott weighs thirteen-ten, and he's all
muscle, and he goes like a battering-ram. You'll own that. He goes as
hard as he jolly well knows how, and yet the worst he has ever done is
to lay a man out for a couple of minutes while he gets his wind back.
Well, compare him with this Bargee man. The Bargee weighs a stone less
and isn't nearly as strong, and yet he smashes Tony's collar-bone. It's
all very well, Babe, but you can't get away from it. Prescott tackles
fairly and the Bargee scrags.'

'Yes,' said MacArthur, 'I suppose you're right.'

'Rather,' said Charteris. 'I wish I'd broken his neck.'

'By the way,' said Welch, 'you were talking to him after the match.
What was he saying?'

Charteris laughed.

'By Jove, I'd forgotten; he said I hadn't heard the last of him, and
that I was to wait.'

'What did you say?'

'Oh, I behaved beautifully. I asked him to be sure and look in any time
he was passing, and after a few chatty remarks we parted.'

'I wonder if he meant anything.'

'I believe he means to waylay me with a buckled belt. I shan't stir out
except with the Old Man or some other competent bodyguard. "'Orrible
outrage, shocking death of a St Austin's schoolboy." It would look
rather well on the posters.'

Welch stuck strenuously to the point.

'No, but, look here, Charteris,' he said seriously, 'I'm not rotting.
You see, the man lives in Stapleton, and if he knows anything of School
rules - '

'Which he doesn't probably. Why should he? Well?' - 'If he knows
anything of the rules, he'll know that Stapleton's out of bounds, and
he may book you there and run you in to Merevale.'

'Yes,' said MacArthur. 'I tell you what, you'd do well to knock off a
few of your expeditions to Stapleton. You know you wouldn't go there
once a month if it wasn't out of bounds. You'll be a prefect next term.
I should wait till then, if I were you.'

'My dear chap, what does it matter? The worst that can happen to you
for breaking bounds is a couple of hundred lines, and I've got a
capital of four hundred already in stock. Besides, things would be so
slow if you always kept in bounds. I always feel like a cross between
Dick Turpin and Machiavelli when I go to Stapleton. It's an awfully
jolly feeling. Like warm treacle running down your back. It's cheap at
two hundred lines.'

'You're an awful fool,' said Welch, rudely but correctly.

Welch was a youth who treated the affairs of other people rather too
seriously. He worried over them. This is not a particularly common
trait in the character of either boy or man, but Welch had it highly
developed. He could not probably have explained exactly why he was
worried, but he undoubtedly was. Welch had a very grave and serious
mind. He shared a study with Charteris - for Charteris, though not yet a
School-prefect, was part owner of a study - and close observation had
convinced him that the latter was not responsible for his actions, and
that he wanted somebody to look after him. He had therefore elected
himself to the post of a species of modified and unofficial guardian
angel to him. The duties were heavy, and the remuneration exceedingly
light.

'Really, you know,' said MacArthur, 'I don't see what the point of all
your lunacy is. I don't know if you're aware of it, but the Old Man's
getting jolly sick with you.'

'I didn't know,' said Charteris, 'but I'm very glad to hear it. For
hist! I have a ger-rudge against the person. Beneath my ban that mystic
man shall suffer, _coute que coute_, Matilda. He sat upon
me - publicly, and the resultant blot on my scutcheon can only be wiped
out with blood, or broken rules,' he added.

This was true. To listen to Charteris on the subject, one might have
thought that he considered the matter rather amusing than otherwise.
This, however, was simply due to the fact that he treated everything
flippantly in conversation. But, like the parrot, he thought the more.
The actual _casus belli_ had been trivial. At least the mere
spectator would have considered it trivial. It had happened after this
fashion. Charteris was a member of the School corps. The orderly-room
of the School corps was in the junior part of the School buildings.
Charteris had been to replace his rifle in that shrine of Mars after a
mid-day drill, and on coming out into the passage had found himself in
the middle of a junior school 'rag' of the conventional type.
Somebody's cap had fallen off, and two hastily picked teams were
playing football with it (Association rules). Now, Charteris was not a
prefect (that, it may be observed in passing, was another source of
bitterness in him towards the Powers, for he was fairly high up in the
Sixth, and others of his set, Welch, Thomson, and Tony Graham, who were
also in the Sixth - the two last below him in form order - had already
received their prefects' caps). Not being a prefect, it would have been
officious in him to have stopped the game. So he was passing on with
what Mr Hurry Bungsho Jabberjee, B.A., would have termed a beaming
simper of indescribable suavity, when a member of one of the opposing
teams, in effecting a G. O. Smithian dribble, cannoned into him. To
preserve his balance - this will probably seem a very thin line of
defence, but 'I state but the facts' - he grabbed at the disciple of
Smith amidst applause, and at that precise moment a new actor appeared
on the scene - the Headmaster. Now, of all the things that lay in his
province, the Headmaster most disliked to see a senior 'ragging' with a
junior. He had a great idea of the dignity of the senior school, and
did all that in him lay to see that it was kept up. The greater number
of the juniors with whom the senior was found ragging, the more heinous
the offence. Circumstantial evidence was dead against Charteris. To all
outward appearances he was one of the players in the impromptu football
match. The soft and fascinating beams of the simper, to quote Mr
Jabberjee once more, had not yet faded from the act. A well-chosen word
or two from the Headmagisterial lips put a premature end to the
football match, and Charteris was proceeding on his way when the
Headmaster called him. He stopped. The Headmaster was angry. So angry,
indeed, that he did what in a more lucid interval he would not have
done. He hauled a senior over the coals in the hearing of a number of
juniors, one of whom (unidentified) giggled loudly. As Charteris had on
previous occasions observed, the Old Man, when he did start to take a
person's measure, didn't leave out much. The address was not long, but
it covered a great deal of ground. The section of it which chiefly
rankled in Charteris's mind, and which had continued to rankle ever
since, was that in which the use of the word 'buffoon' had occurred.
Everybody who has a gift of humour and (very naturally) enjoys
exercising it, hates to be called a buffoon. It was Charteris's one
weak spot. Every other abusive epithet in the language slid off him
without penetrating or causing him the least discomfort. The word
'buffoon' went home, right up to the hilt. And, to borrow from Mr
Jabberjee for positively the very last time, he had observed
(mentally): 'Henceforward I will perpetrate heaps of the lowest dregs
of vice.' He had, in fact, started a perfect bout of breaking rules,
simply because they were rules. The injustice of the thing rankled. No
one so dislikes being punished unjustly as the person who might have
been punished justly on scores of previous occasions, if he had only
been found out. To a certain extent, Charteris ran amok. He broke
bounds and did little work, and - he was beginning gradually to find
this out - got thoroughly tired of it all. Offended dignity, however,
still kept him at it, and much as he would have preferred to have
resumed a less feverish type of existence, he did not do so.

'I have a ger-rudge against the man,' he said.

'You _are_ an idiot, really,' said Welch.

'Welch,' said Charteris, by way of explanation to MacArthur, 'is a lad
of coarse fibre. He doesn't understand the finer feelings. He can't see
that I am doing this simply for the Old Man's good. Spare the rod,
spile the choild. Let's go and have a look at Tony when we're changed.
He'll be in the sick-room if he's anywhere.'

'All right,' said the Babe, as he went into his study. 'Buck up. I'll
toss you for first bath in a second.'

Charteris walked on with Welch to their sanctum.

'You know,' said Welch seriously, stooping to unlace his boots,
'rotting apart, you really are a most awful ass. I wish I could get you
to see it.'

'Never you mind, ducky,' said Charteris, 'I'm all right. I'll look
after myself.'


_Chapter 2_

It was about a week after the Bargees' match that the rules respecting
bounds were made stricter, much to the popular indignation. The penalty
for visiting Stapleton without leave was increased from two hundred
lines to two extra lessons. The venomous characteristic of extra lesson
was that it cut into one's football, for the criminal was turned into a
form-room from two till four on half-holidays, and so had to scratch
all athletic engagements for the day, unless he chose to go for a
solitary run afterwards. In the cricket term the effect of this was not
so deadly. It was just possible that you might get an innings somewhere
after four o'clock, even if only at the nets. But during the football
season - it was now February - to be in extra lesson meant a total loss
of everything that makes life endurable, and the School protested (to
one another, in the privacy of their studies) with no uncertain voice
against this barbarous innovation.

The reason for the change had been simple. At the corner of the High
Street at Stapleton was a tobacconist's shop, and Mr Prater, strolling
in one evening to renew his stock of Pioneer, was interested to observe
P. St H. Harrison, of Merevale's, purchasing a consignment of 'Girl of
my Heart' cigarettes (at twopence-halfpenny the packet of twenty,
including a coloured picture of Lord Kitchener). Now, Mr Prater was one
of the most sportsmanlike of masters. If he had merely met Harrison out
of bounds, and it had been possible to have overlooked him, he would
have done so. But such a proceeding in the interior of a small shop was
impossible. There was nothing to palliate the crime. The tobacconist
also kept the wolf from the door, and lured the juvenile population of
the neighbourhood to it, by selling various weird brands of sweets, but
it was only too obvious that Harrison was not after these. Guilt was in
his eye, and the packet of cigarettes in his hand. Also Harrison's
House cap was fixed firmly at the back of his head. Mr Prater finished
buying his Pioneer, and went out without a word. That night it was
announced to Harrison that the Headmaster wished to see him. The
Headmaster saw him, though for a certain period of the interview he did
not see the Headmaster, having turned his back on him by request. On
the following day Stapleton was placed doubly out of bounds.

Tony, who was still in bed, had not heard the news when Charteris came
to see him on the evening of the day on which the edict had gone forth.

'How are you getting on?' asked Charteris.

'Oh, fairly well. It's rather slow.'

'The grub seems all right.' Charteris absently reached out for a slice
of cake.

'Not bad.'

'And you don't have to do any work.'

'No.'

'Well, then, it seems to me you're having a jolly good time. What don't
you like about it?'

'It's so slow, being alone all day.'

'Makes you appreciate intellectual conversation all the more when you
get it. Mine, for instance.'

'I want something to read.'

'I'll bring you a Sidgwick's _Greek Prose Composition_, if you
like. Full of racy stories.'

'I've read 'em, thanks.'

'How about Jebb's _Homer_? You'd like that. Awfully interesting.
Proves that there never was such a man as Homer, you know, and that the
_Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ were produced by evolution. General
style, quietly funny. Make you roar.'

'Don't be an idiot. I'm simply starving for something to read. Haven't
you got anything?'

'You've read all mine.'

'Hasn't Welch got any books?'

'Not one. He bags mine when he wants to read. I'll tell you what I will
do if you like.'

'What?'

'Go into Stapleton, and borrow something from Adamson.' Adamson was the
College doctor.

'By Jove, that's not a bad idea.'

'It's a dashed good idea, which wouldn't have occurred to anybody but a
genius. I've been quite a pal of Adamson's ever since I had the flu. I

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8