celebrities. She evidently had plenty of remarks to make on the subject
in hand, but refrained from motives of prudence.

Charteris had no such scruples. The feeling of fatigue that had been
upon him had vanished, and his temper, which had been growing steadily
worse for some twenty minutes, now boiled over gleefully at the
prospect of something solid to work itself off upon. Even without a
cause Charteris detested the Rural Hooligan. Now that a real,
copper-bottomed motive for this dislike had been supplied to him, he
felt himself capable of dealing with a whole regiment of the breed. The
criminal with the bicycle had just let it fall with a crash to the
ground when Charteris went for him low, in the style which the Babe
always insisted on seeing in members of the First Fifteen on the
football field, and hove him without comment into a damp ditch.
'Charles his friend' uttered a shout of disapproval and rushed into the
fray. Charteris gave him the straight left, of the type to which the
great John Jackson is reported to have owed so much in the days of the
old Prize Ring, and Charles, taking it between the eyes, stopped in a
discouraged and discontented manner, and began to rub the place.
Whereupon Charteris dashed in, and, to use an expression suitable to
the deed, 'swung his right at the mark'. The 'mark', it may be
explained for the benefit of the non-pugilistic, is that portion of the
anatomy which lies hid behind the third button of the human waistcoat.
It covers - in a most inadequate way - the wind, and even a gentle tap in
the locality is apt to produce a fleeting sense of discomfort. A
genuine flush hit on the spot, shrewdly administered by a muscular arm
with the weight of the body behind it, causes the passive agent in the
transaction to wish fervently, as far as he is at the moment physically
capable of wishing anything, that he had never been born. 'Charles his
friend' collapsed like an empty sack, and Charteris, getting a grip of
the outlying portions of his costume, dragged him to the ditch and
rolled him in on top of his friend, who had just recovered sufficiently
to be thinking about getting out again. The pair of them lay there in a
tangled heap. Charteris picked up the bicycle and gave it a cursory
examination. The enamel was a good deal scratched, but no material
damage had been done. He wheeled it across to its owner.

'It isn't much hurt,' he said, as they walked on slowly together. 'Bit
scratched, that's all.'

'Thanks _awfully_,' said the small lady.

'Oh, not at all,' replied Charteris. 'I enjoyed it.' (He felt he had
said the right thing there. Your real hero always 'enjoys it'.) 'I'm
sorry those bargees frightened you.'

'They did rather. But' - she added triumphantly after a pause - 'I didn't
cry.'

'Rather not,' said Charteris. 'You were awfully plucky. I noticed. But
hadn't you better ride on? Which way were you going?'

'I wanted to get to Stapleton.'

'Oh. That's simple enough. You've merely got to go straight on down
this road, as straight as ever you can go. But, look here, you know,
you shouldn't be out alone like this. It isn't safe. Why did they let
you?'

The lady avoided his eye. She bent down and inspected the left pedal.

'They shouldn't have sent you out alone,' said Charteris, 'why did
they?'

'They - they didn't. I came.'

There was a world of meaning in the phrase. Charteris felt that he was
in the same case. They had not let _him_. He had come. Here was a
kindred spirit, another revolutionary soul, scorning the fetters of
convention and the so-called authority of self-constituted rules, aha!
Bureaucrats!

'Shake hands,' he said, 'I'm in just the same way.'

They shook hands gravely.

'You know,' said the lady, 'I'm awfully sorry I did it now. It was very
naughty.'

'I'm not sorry yet,' said Charteris, 'I'm rather glad than otherwise.
But I expect I shall be sorry before long.'

'Will you be sent to bed?'

'I don't think so.'

'Will you have to learn beastly poetry?'

'Probably not.'

She looked at him curiously, as if to enquire, 'then if you won't have
to learn poetry and you won't get sent to bed, what on earth is there
for you to worry about?'

She would probably have gone on to investigate the problem further, but
at that moment there came the sound of a whistle. Then another, closer
this time. Then a faint rumbling, which increased in volume steadily.
Charteris looked back. The railway line ran by the side of the road. He
could see the smoke of a train through the trees. It was quite close
now, and coming closer every minute, and he was still quite a hundred
and fifty yards from the station gates.

'I say,' he cried. 'Great Scott, here comes my train. I must rush.
Good-bye. You keep straight on.'

His legs had had time to grow stiff again. For the first few strides
running was painful. But his joints soon adapted themselves to the
strain, and in ten seconds he was sprinting as fast as he had ever
sprinted off the running-track. When he had travelled a quarter of the
distance the small cyclist overtook him.

'Be quick,' she said, 'it's just in sight.'

Charteris quickened his stride, and, paced by the bicycle, spun along
in fine style. Forty yards from the station the train passed him. He
saw it roll into the station. There were still twenty yards to go,
exclusive of the station's steps, and he was already running as fast as
it lay in him to run. Now there were only ten. Now five. And at last,
with a hurried farewell to his companion, he bounded up the steps and
on to the platform. At the end of the platform the line took a sharp
curve to the left. Round that curve the tail end of the guard's van was
just disappearing.

'Missed it, sir,' said the solitary porter, who managed things at
Rutton, cheerfully. He spoke as if he was congratulating Charteris on
having done something remarkably clever.

'When's the next?' panted Charteris.

'Eight-thirty,' was the porter's appalling reply.

For a moment Charteris felt quite ill. No train till eight-thirty! Then
was he indeed lost. But it couldn't be true. There must be some sort of
a train between now and then.

'Are you certain?' he said. 'Surely there's a train before that?'

'Why, yes, sir,' said the porter gleefully, 'but they be all exprusses.
Eight-thirty be the only 'un what starps at Rootton.'

'Thanks,' said Charteris with marked gloom, 'I don't think that'll be
much good to me. My aunt, what a hole I'm in.'

The porter made a sympathetic and interrogative noise at the back of
his throat, as if inviting him to explain everything. But Charteris
felt unequal to conversation. There are moments when one wants to be
alone. He went down the steps again. When he got out into the road, his
small cycling friend had vanished. Charteris was conscious of a feeling
of envy towards her. She was doing the journey comfortably on a
bicycle. He would have to walk it. Walk it! He didn't believe he could.
The strangers' mile, followed by the Homeric combat with the two
Hooligans and that ghastly sprint to wind up with, had left him
decidedly unfit for further feats of pedestrianism. And it was eight
miles to Stapleton, if it was a yard, and another mile from Stapleton
to St Austin's. Charteris, having once more invoked the name of his
aunt, pulled himself together with an effort, and limped gallantly on
in the direction of Stapleton. But fate, so long hostile to him, at
last relented. A rattle of wheels approached him from behind. A thrill
of hope shot through him at the sound. There was the prospect of a
lift. He stopped, and waited for the dog-cart - it sounded like a
dog-cart - to arrive. Then he uttered a shout of rapture, and began to
wave his arms like a semaphore. The man in the dog-cart was Dr Adamson.

'Hullo, Charteris,' said the Doctor, pulling up his horse, 'what are
you doing here?'

'Give me a lift,' said Charteris, 'and I'll tell you. It's a long yarn.
Can I get in?'

'Come along. Plenty of room.'

Charteris climbed up, and sank on to the cushioned seat with a sigh of
pleasure. What glorious comfort. He had never enjoyed anything more in
his life.

'I'm nearly dead,' he said, as the dog-cart went on again. 'This is how
it all happened. You see, it was this way - '

And he embarked forthwith upon his narrative.


_Chapter 6_

By special request the Doctor dropped Charteris within a hundred yards
of Merevale's door.

'Good-night,' he said. 'I don't suppose you will value my advice at
all, but you may have it for what it is worth. I recommend you stop
this sort of game. Next time something will happen.'

'By Jove, yes,' said Charteris, climbing painfully down from the
dog-cart, 'I'll take that advice. I'm a reformed character from this
day onwards. This sort of thing isn't good enough. Hullo, there's the
bell for lock-up. Good-night, Doctor, and thanks most awfully for the
lift. It was frightfully kind of you.'

'Don't mention it,' said Dr Adamson, 'it is always a privilege to be in
your company. When are you coming to tea with me again?'

'Whenever you'll have me. I must get leave, though, this time.'

'Yes. By the way, how's Graham? It is Graham, isn't it? The fellow who
broke his collar-bone?'

'Oh, he's getting on splendidly. Still in a sling, but it's almost well
again now. But I must be off. Good-night.'

'Good-night. Come to tea next Monday.'

'Right,' said Charteris; 'thanks awfully.'

He hobbled in at Merevale's gate, and went up to his study. The Babe
was in there talking to Welch.

'Hullo,' said the Babe, 'here's Charteris.'

'What's left of him,' said Charteris.

'How did it go off?'

'Don't, please.'

'Did you win?' asked Welch.

'No. Second. By a yard. Oh, Lord, I am dead.'

'Hot race?'

'Rather. It wasn't that, though. I had to sprint all the way to the
station, and missed my train by ten seconds at the end of it all.'

'Then how did you get here?'

'That was the one stroke of luck I've had this afternoon. I started to
walk back, and after I'd gone about a quarter of a mile, Adamson caught
me up in his dog-cart. I suggested that it would be a Christian act on
his part to give me a lift, and he did. I shall remember Adamson in my
will.'

'Tell us what happened.'

'I'll tell thee everything I can,' said Charteris. 'There's little to
relate. I saw an aged, aged man a-sitting on a gate. Where do you want
me to begin?'

'At the beginning. Don't rot.'

'I was born,' began Charteris, 'of poor but honest parents, who sent
me to school at an early age in order that I might acquire a grasp of
the Greek and Latin languages, now obsolete. I - '

'How did you lose?' enquired the Babe.

'The other man beat me. If he hadn't, I should have won hands down. Oh,
I say, guess who I met at Rutton.'

'Not a beak?'

'No. Almost as bad, though. The Bargee man who paced me from Stapleton.
Man who crocked Tony.'

'Great _Scott_!' cried the Babe. 'Did he recognize you?'

'Rather. We had a very pleasant conversation.'

'If he reports you,' began the Babe.

'Who's that?'

Charteris looked up. Tony Graham had entered the study.

'Hullo, Tony! Adamson told me to remember him to you.'

'So you've got back?'

Charteris confirmed the hasty guess.

'But what are you talking about, Babe?' said Tony. 'Who's going to be
reported, and who's going to report?'

The Babe briefly explained the situation.

'If the man,' he said, 'reports Charteris, he may get run in tomorrow,
and then we shall have both our halves away against Dacre's. Charteris,
you are a fool to go rotting about out of bounds like this.'

'Nay, dry the starting tear,' said Charteris cheerfully. 'In the first
place, I shouldn't get kept in on a Thursday anyhow. I should be shoved
into extra on Saturday. Also, I shrewdly conveyed to the Bargee the
impression that I was at Rutton by special permission.'

'He's bound to know that that can't be true,' said Tony.

'Well, I told him to think it over. You see, he got so badly left last
time he tried to compass my downfall, that I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if he let the job alone this journey.'

'Let's hope so,' said the Babe gloomily.

'That's right, Babby,' remarked Charteris encouragingly, nodding at the
pessimist.

'You buck up and keep looking on the bright side. It'll be all right.
You see if it won't. If there's any running in to be done, I shall do
it. I shall be frightfully fit tomorrow after all this dashing about
today. I haven't an ounce of superfluous flesh on me. I'm a fine,
strapping specimen of sturdy young English manhood. And I'm going to
play a _very_ selfish game tomorrow, Babe.'

'Oh, my dear chap, you mustn't.' The Babe's face wore an expression of
horror. The success of the House-team in the final was very near to his
heart. He could not understand anyone jesting on the subject. Charteris
respected his anguish, and relieved it speedily.

'I was only ragging,' he said. 'Considering that our three-quarter line
is our one strong point, I'm not likely to keep the ball from it, if I
get a chance of getting it out. Make your mind easy, Babe.'

The final House-match was always a warmish game. The rivalry between
the various Houses was great, and the football cup especially was
fought for with immense keenness. Also, the match was the last fixture
of the season, and there was a certain feeling in the teams that if
they _did_ happen to disable a man or two, it would not matter
much. The injured sportsman would not be needed for School-match
purposes for another six months. As a result of which philosophical
reflection, the tackling was ruled slightly energetic, and the
handing-off was done with vigour.

This year, to add a sort of finishing touch, there was just a little
ill-feeling between Dacre's and Merevale's. The cause of it was the
Babe. Until the beginning of the term he had been a day boy. Then the
news began to circulate that he was going to become a boarder, either
at Dacre's or at Merevale's. He chose the latter, and Dacre's felt
slightly aggrieved. Some of the less sportsmanlike members of the House
had proposed that a protest should be made against his being allowed to
play, but, fortunately for the credit of Dacre's, Prescott, the captain
of the House Fifteen, had put his foot down with an emphatic bang at
the suggestion. As he sagely pointed out, there were some things which
were bad form, and this was one of them. If the team wanted to express
their disapproval, said he, let them do it on the field by tackling
their very hardest. He personally was going to do his best, and he
advised them to do the same.

The rumour of this bad blood had got about the School in some
mysterious manner, and when Swift, Merevale's only First Fifteen
forward, kicked off up the hill, a large crowd was lining the ropes. It
was evident from the outset that it would be a good game.

Dacre's were the better side - as a team. They had no really weak spot.
But Merevale's extraordinarily strong three-quarter line somewhat made
up for an inferior scrum. And the fact that the Babe was in the centre
was worth much.

At first Dacre's pressed. Their pack was unusually heavy for a
House-team, and they made full use of it. They took the ball down the
field in short rushes till they were in Merevale's twenty-five. Then
they began to heel, and, if things had been more or less exciting for
the Merevalians before, they became doubly so now. The ground was dry,
and so was the ball, and the game consequently waxed fast. Time after
time the ball went along Dacre's three-quarter line, only to end by
finding itself hurled, with the wing who was carrying it, into touch.
Occasionally the centres, instead of feeding their wings, would try to
dodge through themselves. And that was where the Babe came in. He was
admittedly the best tackler in the School, but on this occasion he
excelled himself. His man never had a chance of getting past. At last a
lofty kick into touch over the heads of the spectators gave the players
a few seconds' rest.

The Babe went up to Charteris.

'Look here,' he said, 'it's risky, but I think we'll try having the
ball out a bit.'

'In our own twenty-five?' said Charteris.

'Wherever we are. I believe it will come off all right. Anyway, we'll
try it. Tell the forwards.'

For forwards playing against a pack much heavier than themselves, it is
easier to talk about letting the ball out than to do it. The first half
dozen times that Merevale's scrum tried to heel they were shoved off
their feet, and it was on the enemy's side that the ball went out. But
the seventh attempt succeeded. Out it came, cleanly and speedily.
Daintree, who was playing instead of Tony, switched it across to
Charteris. Charteris dodged the half who was marking him, and ran.
Heeling and passing in one's own twenty-five is like smoking - an
excellent practice if indulged in in moderation. On this occasion it
answered perfectly. Charteris ran to the half-way line, and handed the
ball on to the Babe. The Babe was tackled from behind, and passed to
Thomson. Thomson dodged his man, and passed to Welch on the wing. Welch
was the fastest sprinter in the School. It was a pleasure - if you did
not happen to be one of the opposing side - to see him race down the
touch-line. He was off like an arrow. Dacre's back made a futile
attempt to get at him. Welch could have given the back fifteen yards in
a hundred. He ran round him, and, amidst terrific applause from the
Merevale's-supporting section of the audience, scored between the
posts. The Babe took the kick and converted without difficulty. Five
minutes afterwards the whistle blew for half-time.

The remainder of the game does not call for detailed description.
Dacre's pressed nearly the whole of the last half hour, but twice more
the ball came out and went down Merevale's three-quarter line. Once it
was the Babe who scored with a run from his own goal-line, and once
Charteris, who got in from half-way, dodging through the whole team.
The last ten minutes of the game was marked by a slight excess of
energy on both sides. Dacre's forwards were in a decidedly bad temper,
and fought like tigers to break through, and Merevale's played up to
them with spirit. The Babe seemed continually to be precipitating
himself at the feet of rushing forwards, and Charteris felt as if at
least a dozen bones were broken in various portions of his anatomy. The
game ended on Merevale's line, but they had won the match and the cup
by two goals and a try to nothing.

Charteris limped off the field, cheerful but damaged. He ached all
over, and there was a large bruise on his left cheek-bone. He and Babe
were going to the House, when they were aware that the Headmaster was
beckoning to them.

'Well, MacArthur, and what was the result of the match?'

'We won, sir,' boomed the Babe. 'Two goals and a try to _nil_.'

'You have hurt your cheek, Charteris?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How did you do that?'

'I got a kick, sir, in one of the rushes.'

'Ah. I should bathe it, Charteris. Bathe it well. I hope it will not be
very painful. Bathe it well in warm water.'

He walked on.

'You know,' said Charteris to the Babe, as they went into the House,
'the Old Man isn't such a bad sort after all. He has his points, don't
you think?'

The Babe said that he did.

'I'm going to reform, you know,' continued Charteris confidentially.

'It's about time,' said the Babe. 'You can have the bath first if you
like. Only buck up.'

Charteris boiled himself for ten minutes, and then dragged his weary
limbs to his study. It was while he was sitting in a deck-chair eating
mixed biscuits, and wondering if he would ever be able to summon up
sufficient energy to put on garments of civilization, that somebody
knocked at the door.

'Yes,' shouted Charteris. 'What is it? Don't come in. I'm changing.'

The melodious treble of Master Crowinshaw, his fag, made itself heard
through the keyhole.

'The Head told me to tell you that he wanted to see you at the School
House as soon as you can go.'

'All right,' shouted Charteris. 'Thanks.'

'Now what,' he continued to himself, 'does the Old Man want to see me
for? Perhaps he wants to make certain that I've bathed my cheek in warm
water. Anyhow, I suppose I must go.'

A quarter of an hour later he presented himself at the Headmagisterial
door. The sedate Parker, the Head's butler, who always filled Charteris
with a desire to dig him hard in the ribs just to see what would
happen, ushered him into the study.

The Headmaster was reading by the light of a lamp when Charteris came
in. He laid down his book, and motioned him to a seat; after which
there was an awkward pause.

'I have just received,' began the Head at last, 'a most unpleasant
communication. Most unpleasant. From whom it comes I do not know. It
is, in fact - er - anonymous. I am sorry that I ever read it.'

He stopped. Charteris made no comment. He guessed what was coming. He,
too, was sorry that the Head had ever read the letter.

'The writer says that he saw you, that he actually spoke to you, at the
athletic sports at Rutton yesterday. I have called you in to tell me if
that is true.' The Head fastened an accusing eye on his companion.

'It is quite true, sir,' said Charteris steadily.

'What!' said the Head sharply. 'You were at Rutton?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You were perfectly aware, I suppose, that you were breaking the School
rules by going there, Charteris?' enquired the Head in a cold voice.

'Yes, sir.' There was another pause.

'This is very serious,' began the Head. 'I cannot overlook this. I - '

There was a slight scuffle of feet in the passage outside. The door
flew open vigorously, and a young lady entered. It was, as Charteris
recognized in a minute, his acquaintance of the afternoon, the young
lady of the bicycle.

'Uncle,' she said, 'have you seen my book anywhere?'

'Hullo!' she broke off as her eye fell on Charteris.

'Hullo!' said Charteris, affably, not to be outdone in the courtesies.

'Did you catch your train?'

'No. Missed it.'

'Hullo! what's the matter with your cheek?'

'I got a kick on it.'

'Oh, does it hurt?'

'Not much, thanks.'

Here the Head, feeling perhaps a little out of it, put in his oar.

'Dorothy, you must not come here now. I am busy. And how, may I ask, do
you and Charteris come to be acquainted?'

'Why, he's him,' said Dorothy lucidly.

The Head looked puzzled.

'Him. The chap, you know.'

It is greatly to the Head's credit that he grasped the meaning of these
words. Long study of the classics had quickened his faculty for seeing
sense in passages where there was none. The situation dawned upon him.

'Do you mean to tell me, Dorothy, that it was Charteris who came to
your assistance yesterday?'

Dorothy nodded energetically.

'He gave the men beans,' she said. 'He did, really,' she went on,
regardless of the Head's look of horror. 'He used right and left with
considerable effect.'

Dorothy's brother, a keen follower of the Ring, had been good enough
some days before to read her out an extract from an account in _The
Sportsman_ of a match at the National Sporting Club, and the account
had been much to her liking. She regarded it as a masterpiece of
English composition.

'Dorothy,' said the Headmaster, 'run away to bed.' A suggestion which
she treated with scorn, it wanting a clear two hours to her legal
bedtime. 'I must speak to your mother about your deplorable habit of
using slang. Dear me, I must certainly speak to her.'

And, shamefully unabashed, Dorothy retired.

The Head was silent for a few minutes after she had gone; then he
turned to Charteris again.

'In consideration of this, Charteris, I shall - er - mitigate slightly
the punishment I had intended to give you.'

Charteris murmured his gratification.

'But,' continued the Head sternly, 'I cannot overlook the offence. I
have my duty to consider. You will therefore write me - er - ten lines of
Virgil by tomorrow evening, Charteris.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Latin _and_ English,' said the relentless pedagogue.

'Yes, sir.'

'And, Charteris - I am speaking now - er - unofficially, not as a
headmaster, you understand - if in future you would cease to break
School rules simply as a matter of principle, for that, I fancy, is what
it amounts to, I - er - well, I think we should get on better together.
And that is, on my part at least, a consummation - er - devoutly to be
wished. Good-night, Charteris.'

'Good-night, sir.'

The Head extended a large hand. Charteris took it, and his departure.

The Headmaster opened his book again, and turned over a new leaf.
Charteris at the same moment, walking slowly in the direction of
Merevale's, was resolving for the future to do the very same thing. And
he did.


[9]

HOW PAYNE BUCKED UP


It was Walkinshaw's affair from the first. Grey, the captain of the St
Austin's Fifteen, was in the infirmary nursing a bad knee. To him came
Charles Augustus Walkinshaw with a scheme. Walkinshaw was football
secretary, and in Grey's absence acted as captain. Besides these two
there were only a couple of last year's team left - Reade and Barrett,
both of Philpott's House.

'Hullo, Grey, how's the knee?' said Walkinshaw.

'How's the team getting on?' he said.

'Well, as far as I can see,' said Walkinshaw, 'we ought to have a
rather good season, if you'd only hurry up and come back. We beat a
jolly hot lot of All Comers yesterday. Smith was playing for them. The
Blue, you know. And lots of others. We got a goal and a try to
_nil_.'

'Good,' said Grey. 'Who did anything for us? Who scored?'

'I got in once. Payne got the other.'

'By Jove, did he? What sort of a game is he playing this year?'

The moment had come for Walkinshaw to unburden himself to his scheme.
He proceeded to do so.

'Not up to much,' he said. 'Look here, Grey, I've got rather an idea.
It's my opinion Payne's not bucking up nearly as much as he might. Do
you mind if I leave him out of the next game?'

Grey stared. The idea was revolutionary.

'What! Leave him out? My good man, he'll be the next chap to get his
colours. He's a cert. for his cap.'

'That's just it. He knows he's a cert., and he's slacking on the
strength of it. Now, my idea is that if you slung him out for a match
or two, he'd buck up extra hard when he came into the team again. Can't
I have a shot at it?'

Grey weighed the matter. Walkinshaw pressed home his arguments.

'You see, it isn't like cricket. At cricket, of course, it might put a
chap off awfully to be left out, but I don't see how it can hurt a
man's play at footer. Besides, he's beginning to stick on side
already.'

'Is he, by Jove?' said Grey. This was the unpardonable sin. 'Well, I'll
tell you what you can do if you like. Get up a scratch game, First
Fifteen _v._ Second, and make him captain of the Second.'

'Right,' said Walkinshaw, and retired beaming.

Walkinshaw, it may be remarked at once, to prevent mistakes, was a
well-meaning idiot. There was no doubt about his being well-meaning.
Also, there was no doubt about his being an idiot. He was continually
getting insane ideas into his head, and being unable to get them out
again. This matter of Payne was a good example of his customary
methods. He had put his hand on the one really first-class forward St
Austin's possessed, and proposed to remove him from the team. And yet
through it all he was perfectly well-meaning. The fact that personally
he rather disliked Payne had, to do him justice, no weight at all with
him. He would have done the same by his bosom friend under like
circumstances. This is the only excuse that can be offered for him. It
was true that Payne regarded himself as a certainty for his colours, as
far as anything can be considered certain in this vale of sorrow. But
to accuse him of trading on this, and, to use the vernacular, of
putting on side, was unjust to a degree.

On the afternoon following this conversation Payne, who was a member of
Dacre's House, came into his study and banged his books down on the
table with much emphasis. This was a sign that he was feeling
dissatisfied with the way in which affairs were conducted in the world.
Bowden, who was asleep in an armchair - he had been staying in with a
cold - woke with a start. Bowden shared Payne's study. He played centre
three-quarter for the Second Fifteen.

'Hullo!' he said.

Payne grunted. Bowden realized that matters had not been going well
with him. He attempted to soothe him with conversation, choosing what
he thought would be a congenial topic.

'What's on on Saturday?' he asked.

'Scratch game. First _v._ Second.'

Bowden groaned.

'I know those First _v._ Second games,' he said. 'They turn the
Second out to get butchered for thirty-five minutes each way, to
improve the First's combination. It may be fun for the First, but it's
not nearly so rollicking for us. Look here, Payne, if you find me with
the pill at any time, you can let me down easy, you know. You needn't
go bringing off any of your beastly gallery tackles.'

'I won't,' said Payne. 'To start with, it would be against rules. We
happen to be on the same side.'

'Rot, man; I'm not playing for the First.' This was the only
explanation that occurred to him.

'I'm playing for the Second.'

'What! Are you certain?'

'I've seen the list. They're playing Babington instead of me.'

'But why? Babington's no good.'

'I think they have a sort of idea I'm slacking or something. At any
rate, Walkinshaw told me that if I bucked up I might get tried again.'

'Silly goat,' said Bowden. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to take his advice, and buck up.'

II

He did. At the beginning of the game the ropes were lined by some
thirty spectators, who had come to derive a languid enjoyment from
seeing the First pile up a record score. By half-time their numbers had
risen to an excited mob of something over three hundred, and the second
half of the game was fought out to the accompaniment of a storm of
yells and counter yells such as usually only belonged to
school-matches. The Second Fifteen, after a poor start, suddenly awoke
to the fact that this was not going to be the conventional massacre by
any means. The First had scored an unconverted try five minutes after
the kick-off, and it was after this that the Second began to get
together. The school back bungled the drop out badly, and had to find
touch in his own twenty-five, and after that it was anyone's game. The
scrums were a treat to behold. Payne was a monument of strength. Time
after time the Second had the ball out to their three-quarters, and
just after half-time Bowden slipped through in the corner. The kick
failed, and the two teams, with their scores equal now, settled down
grimly to fight the thing out to a finish. But though they remained on
their opponents' line for most of the rest of the game, the Second did
not add to their score, and the match ended in a draw of three points
all.

The first intimation Grey received of this came to him late in the
evening. He had been reading a novel which, whatever its other merits
may have been, was not interesting, and it had sent him to sleep. He
awoke to hear a well-known voice observe with some unction: 'Ah! M'yes.
Leeches and hot fomentations.' This effectually banished sleep. If
there were two things in the world that he loathed, they were leeches
and hot fomentations, and the School doctor apparently regarded them as
a panacea for every kind of bodily ailment, from a fractured skull to a
cold in the head. It was this gentleman who had just spoken, but Grey's
alarm vanished as he perceived that the words had no personal
application to himself. The object of the remark was a fellow-sufferer
in the next bed but one. Now Grey was certain that when he had fallen
asleep there had been nobody in that bed. When, therefore, the medical
expert had departed on his fell errand, the quest of leeches and hot
fomentations, he sat up and gave tongue.

'Who's that in that bed?' he asked.

'Hullo, Grey,' replied a voice. 'Didn't know you were awake. I've come
to keep you company.'

'That you, Barrett? What's up with you?'

'Collar-bone. Dislocated it or something. Reade's over in that corner.
He has bust his ankle. Oh, yes, we've been having a nice, cheery
afternoon,' concluded Barrett bitterly.

'Great Scott! How did it happen?'

'Payne.'

'Where? In your collar-bone?'

'Yes. That wasn't what I meant, though. What I was explaining was that
Payne got hold of me in the middle of the field, and threw me into
touch. After which he fell on me. That was enough for my simple needs.
I'm not grasping.'

'How about Reade?'

'The entire Second scrum collapsed on top of Reade. When we dug him out
his ankle was crocked. Mainspring gone, probably. Then they gathered up
the pieces and took them gently away. I don't know how it all ended.'

Just then Walkinshaw burst into the room. He had a large bruise over
one eye, his arm was in a sling, and he limped. But he was in excellent
spirits.

'I knew I was right, by Jove,' he observed to Grey. 'I knew he could
buck up if he liked.'

'I know it now,' said Barrett.

'Who's this you're talking about?' said Grey.

'Payne. I've never seen anything like the game he played today. He was
everywhere. And, by Jove, his _tackling_!'

'Don't,' said Barrett, wearily.

'It's the best match I ever played in,' said Walkinshaw, bubbling over
with enthusiasm. 'Do you know, the Second had all the best of the
game.'

'What was the score?'

'Draw. One try all.'

'And now I suppose you're satisfied?' enquired Barrett. The great
scheme for the regeneration of Payne had been confided to him by its
proud patentee.

'Almost,' said Walkinshaw. 'We'll continue the treatment for one more
game, and then we'll have him simply fizzing for the Windybury match.
That's next Saturday. By the way, I'm afraid you'll hardly be fit again
in time for that, Barrett, will you?'

'I may possibly,' said Barrett, coldly, 'be getting about again in time
for the Windybury match of the year after next. This year I'm afraid I
shall not have the pleasure. And I should strongly advise you, if you
don't want to have to put a team of cripples into the field, to
discontinue the treatment, as you call it.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Walkinshaw.

On the following Wednesday evening, at five o'clock, something was
carried in on a stretcher, and deposited in the bed which lay between
Grey and Barrett. Close scrutiny revealed the fact that it was what had
once been Charles Augustus Walkinshaw. He was slightly broken up.

'Payne?' enquired Grey in chilly tones.

Walkinshaw admitted the impeachment.

Grey took a pencil and a piece of paper from the table at his side. 'If
you want to know what I'm doing,' he said, 'I'm writing out the team
for the Windybury match, and I'm going to make Payne captain, as the
senior Second Fifteen man. And if we win I'm jolly well going to give
him his cap after the match. If we don't win, it'll be the fault of a
raving lunatic of the name of Walkinshaw, with his beastly Colney Hatch
schemes for reforming slack forwards. You utter rotter!'

Fortunately for the future peace of mind of C. A. Walkinshaw, the
latter contingency did not occur. The School, in spite of its
absentees, contrived to pull the match off by a try to _nil_.
Payne, as was only right and proper, scored the try, making his way
through the ranks of the visiting team with the quiet persistence of a
steam-roller. After the game he came to tea, by request, at the
infirmary, and was straightaway invested by Grey with his First Fifteen
colours. On his arrival he surveyed the invalids with interest.

'Rough game, footer,' he observed at length.

'Don't mention it,' said Barrett politely. 'Leeches,' he added
dreamily. 'Leeches and hot fomentations. _Boiling_ fomentations.
Will somebody kindly murder Walkinshaw!'

'Why?' asked Payne, innocently.


[10]

AUTHOR!


J. S. M. Babington, of Dacre's House, was on the horns of a dilemma.
Circumstances over which he had had no control had brought him, like
another Hercules, to the cross-roads, and had put before him the choice
between pleasure and duty, or, rather, between pleasure and what those
in authority called duty. Being human, he would have had little
difficulty in making his decision, had not the path of pleasure been so
hedged about by danger as to make him doubt whether after all the thing
could be carried through.

The facts in the case were these. It was the custom of the mathematical
set to which J. S. M. Babington belonged, 4B to wit, to relieve the
tedium of the daily lesson with a species of round game which was
played as follows. As soon as the master had taken his seat, one of the
players would execute a manoeuvre calculated to draw attention on
himself, such as dropping a book or upsetting the blackboard. Called up
to the desk to give explanation, he would embark on an eloquent speech
for the defence. This was the cue for the next player to begin. His
part consisted in making his way to the desk and testifying to the
moral excellence of his companion, and giving in full the reasons why
he should be discharged without a stain upon his character. As soon as
he had warmed to his work he would be followed by a third player, and
so on until the standing room around the desk was completely filled
with a great cloud of witnesses. The duration of the game varied, of
course, considerably. On some occasions it could be played through with
such success, that the master would enter into the spirit of the thing,
and do his best to book the names of all offenders at one and the same
time, a feat of no inconsiderable difficulty. At other times matters
would come to a head more rapidly. In any case, much innocent fun was
to be derived from it, and its popularity was great. On the day,
however, on which this story opens, a new master had been temporarily
loosed into the room in place of the Rev. Septimus Brown, who had been
there as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember. The Rev.
Septimus was a wrangler, but knew nothing of the ways of the human boy.
His successor, Mr Reginald Seymour, was a poor mathematician, but a
good master. He had been, moreover, a Cambridge Rugger Blue. This fact
alone should have ensured him against the customary pleasantries, for a
Blue is a man to be respected. It was not only injudicious, therefore,
but positively wrong of Babington to plunge against the blackboard on
his way to his place. If he had been a student of Tennyson, he might
have remembered that the old order is in the habit of changing and
yielding place to the new.

Mr Seymour looked thoughtfully for a moment
at the blackboard.

'That was rather a crude effort,' he said pleasantly to Babington, 'you
lack _finesse_. Pick it up again, please.'

Babington picked it up without protest. Under the rule of the Rev.
Septimus this would have been the signal for the rest of the class to
leave their places and assist him, but now they seemed to realize that
there was a time for everything, and that this was decidedly no time
for indoor games.

'Thank you,' said Mr Seymour, when the board was in its place again.
'What is your name? Eh, what? I didn't quite hear.'

'Babington, sir.'

'Ah. You had better come in tomorrow at two and work out examples three

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