The Loom of Youth Part 12

"You know, these young men aren't what we were," he used to say to his form; "not one of them can write a decent copy of Latin verses. All these Cambridge men are useless--useless!" In his form it was unnecessary to work very hard; but in it the average boy learnt more than he learnt anywhere else. For Macdonald was essentially a scholar; he did not merely mug up notes by German commentators an hour before the lesson. For him the cla.s.sics lived; and he made his form realise this.

To do Aristophanes with him was far better than any music hall. Horace he hated. One day when they were doing _Donec gratus eram tibi_, he burst out with wrath:

"Horrible little cad he was! Can't you see him? Small man, blue nose with too much drinking. Bibulous little beast. If I had been Lydia I would have smacked his face and told him to go to Chloe. I'd have had done with him. Beastly little cad!"

But it was in history that he was at his best. It was a n.o.ble sight to see him imitate the weak-kneed, s...o...b..ring James I; and he had the private scandals of Henry VIII at his finger-tips. For all commentators he had a profound contempt. One day he seized Farrar's edition of _St Luke_, and holding it at arm's-length between his finger and thumb, shook it before the form.

"Filth," he cried, "filth and garbage; take it away and put it down the water-closet." He had a genius for spontaneous comments. Kennedy was very nervous; and whenever he said his rep. he used to hold the seat of his trousers.

"Man, man!" Macdonald shouted out, "you won't be able to draw any inspiration from your stern."

His form would be in a continuous roar of laughter all day long; and when particularly pleased it always rubbed its feet on the floor, a strange custom that had lasted many years. Claremont's form-room was situated just above him, and he could often hardly hear himself speak.

He used to complain bitterly.

"How I wish my jovial colleague down below would keep his form a little more in order."

But Macdonald got his revenge one day when Claremont was reciting Macbeth's final speech fortissimo to his form.

"Hus.h.!.+" said Macdonald. "We must listen to this." Suddenly he chuckled to himself: "And do you think he really imagines he is doing any good to his form by giving that n.i.g.g.e.r minstrel entertainment up there?"

The roar of laughter that followed quite spoilt the effect of the recitation. Work became quite impossible in V.B.

It was about this time that the House began to interest itself in the welfare of Rudd. Rudd was the senior scholar of the year before, and he looked like it. He was fairly tall and very thin. His legs bore little relation to the rest of his body. They fell into place. He was of a dusky countenance, partly because he was of Byzantine origin, partly because he never shaved, chiefly because he did not wash. His clothes always looked as if they had been rolled up into a bundle and used for dormitory football. Perhaps they had. Rudd was not really a bad fellow.

He was by way of being a wit. One day the Chief had set the form a three-hour Divinity paper, consisting of four longish questions. One was: "Do you consider that the teaching of Socrates was in some respects more truly Christian than that of St Paul?" Rudd showed up a whole sheet with one word on it: "Yes." Next day his Sixth Form privileges were taken away. But the House took little notice of his academic audacities.

Rudd did not wash; he was an insanitary nuisance; moreover, he did not play footer.

"That man Rudd is a disgrace to the House," Archie announced one evening after tea; "he's useless to the House; he slacks at rugger and is unclean. Let's s.h.i.+p his study." There was a buzz of a.s.sent. There was a good deal of rowdyism going on in the House just then; and at times it would have been hard to draw the exact borderline between ragging and bullying. A solemn procession moved to Study No. 14. Rudd was working.

"Hullo, Byzantium," said Mansell. "How goes it?"

"Oh, get out, you; I want to work!"

"Gentlemen, Mr Rudd wishes to work," Betteridge announced. "The question is, shall he be allowed to? I say 'No!'" He suddenly jerked away the chair Rudd was sitting on: the owner of the study collapsed on the floor.

Archie at once loosed a tremendous kick at his back.

"Get up, you dirty swine! Haven't you any manners? Stand up when you are talking to gentlemen."

Rudd had a short temper; he let out and caught Mansell on the chin. It is no fun ragging a man who doesn't lose his temper. But, as far as Mansell was concerned, proceedings were less cordial after this. He leapt on Rudd, bore him to the ground, and sat on his head. Foul language was audible from the bottom of the floor. Rudd had not studied Euripides for nothing. Lovelace picked up a hockey stick. "This, gentlemen," he began, "is a hockey stick, useful as an implement of offence if the prisoner gets above himself, and also useful as a means of destroying worthless property. I ask you, gentlemen, it is right that, while we should have only three chairs among two people, Rudd should have two all to himself? Gentlemen, I propose to destroy that chair."

In a few minutes the chair was in fragments. A crowd began to collect.

"I say, you men," shouted Gordon, "the refuse heap is just opposite; let's transfer all the waste paper of the last ten years and bury the offender."

Just across the pa.s.sage was a long, blind-alley effect running under the stairs, which was used as a store for waste paper. It was cleaned out about once every generation. In a few minutes waste-paper baskets had been "bagged" from adjoining studies, and No. 14 was about a foot deep in paper.

"That table is taking up too much room, Lovelace," Bradford bawled out; "smash it up."

The table went to join the chair in the Elysian Fields. Rudd was now almost entirely immersed in paper. The noise was becoming excessive.

Oaths floated down the pa.s.sage.

At last Ferguson moved. In a blase way he strolled down the pa.s.sage. For a minute he was an amused spectator, then he said languidly: "Suppose we consider the meeting adjourned. I think it's nearly half-time."

Gradually the crowd began to clear; Rudd rose out of the paper like Venus out of the water. A roar of laughter broke out.

"Well, Rudd, I sincerely hope you are insured," murmured Ferguson.

What Rudd said is unprintable. In his bill at the end of the term his father found there was a charge of ten s.h.i.+llings for damaged property in Study No. 14. Rudd got less pocket-money the next term.

"I say, you fellows, have you heard the latest? 'The Bull' has kicked me out of the Colts."

Lovelace came into the changing-room, fuming with rage. There had been a Colts' trial that afternoon. Buller had cursed furiously and finally booted Lovelace off the field, with some murmured remarks about "typical School House slackness."

"It's d.a.m.ned rot," said Bradford. "Because Simonds has made rather an a.s.s of himself in the last two matches, Bull thinks the whole House is slack. He gave Turner six to-day just because he hadn't looked up one word. I hope he doesn't intend to judge the whole House by Simonds."

The House was getting fed up with Simonds. It was all very well working in moderation for scholars.h.i.+ps, but when it came to allowing games to suffer, things were getting serious. Private inclination cannot stand in the way of the real business of life. And no one would hesitate to own that he had come to Fernhurst mainly to play footer.

"But, you know, I don't think 'the Bull's' that sort," Gordon protested; "he may lose his temper and all that, but I think he's fair."

"Do you?" said Hunter drily.

There was a laugh. As a whole, the House was certain that "the Bull" was against them.

In a week's time Lovelace was back again in the Colts, and Gordon was telling his friends what fools they were not to trust "the Bull."

Gordon was confirmed this term. He was rather young; but it was obviously the thing to do, and, as Mansell said: "It's best to take the oath when you are more or less 'pi,' and there is still some chance of remaining so. You can't tell what you will be like in a year or so."

As is the case with most boys, Confirmation had very little effect on Gordon. He was not an atheist; he accepted Christianity in much the same way that he accepted the Conservative party. All the best people believed in it, so it was bound to be all right; but at the same time it had not the slightest influence over his actions. If he had any religion at this time it was House football; but for the most part, he lived merely to enjoy himself, and his pleasures were, on the whole, innocuous. They very rarely went much beyond ragging Rudd.

"Do you think," said Gordon, the evening after his first confirmation address, "that the masters really believe confirmation has any effect on us? Because you know it doesn't."

"I don't think it matters very much what masters think," said Hunter; "most of them here have got into a groove. They believe the things they ought to believe; they are all copies of the same type. They've clean forgotten what it was like at school. Hardly any of them really know boys. They go on happily believing them 'perhaps a little excitable, but on the whole, perfectly straight and honest.' Then a row comes. They are horrified. They don't realise all of us are the same. They've made themselves believe what they want to believe."

"Yes, and when they are told the truth, they won't believe it," said Betteridge. "You know, I was reading an article in some paper the other day, by an a.s.sistant master at Winchborough, called Ferrers. He was cursing the whole system. I showed it to Claremont, just for a rag; told him I thought it was rather good. The old fool looked at it for some time, and then said: 'Well, Betteridge, don't form your style on this.

It is very perfervid stuff. Not always grammatical.' All the a.s.s thinks of is whether plurals agree with singulars; he does not care a d.a.m.n whether the material is good."

"That's it," said Gordon. "Masters try to make you imitate, and not think for yourself. 'Mould your Latin verses on Vergil, your Greek prose on Thucydides, your English on Matthew Arnold, but don't think for yourself. Don't be original.' If anyone big began to think he'd see what a farce it all is; and then where would all these fossils be? It's all sham; look at the reports. Bradford gets told he's a good moral influence. Mansell works hard and deserves his prize. It is hoped that confirmation will be a help to me. Rot, it all is!"

"Oh, I'm not so certain confirmation is a farce," broke in Bradford. "If you don't believe in it, you won't get to heaven."

"But who the h.e.l.l wants to get there," said Mansell. "Sing hymns all day long. I can imagine it. Fancy having Caruthers singing out of tune in your ear for ever. It's bad enough in chapel once a day. But for ever----!"

"My good lads, you don't know what heaven's like," whispered Bradford confidentially. "Claremont was ga.s.sing away about Browning the other day, and said that he believed that in heaven you could do all the things you wanted to do on earth! And by Jove I would have a hot time--some place, heaven!"

"By Jove, yes; but you know, Bradford, there won't be much left for you to do in heaven; at the rate you are going you will have done most things on earth."