The Loom of Youth Part 15

"How many have you got down?"

"Oh, about fifteen."

"Well, look here, if you get over fifty I'll join in."

As nearly everyone said this, the hopes of successful operations seemed unlikely.

But still it all helped to disarm any trace of suspicion.

"I say, Ferguson, what do you think of all this?" said Mansell.

"I think a great creed has gone down. I shall no longer believe that conscience and cowardice are synonymous; only conscience is the trade name of the firm."

Mansell laughed. It was probably meant to be funny. He never quite understood Ferguson. On the next afternoon everyone sat down to two hours' extra school. There was much swearing at tea. But in a day or two it was all forgotten.

To this day no one at Fernhurst knows who the two boys were. The secret was well kept.

As the term drew to its close, with the Fifteen filled up and all the big matches over, interest was centred mainly in House football and House affairs. Mansell, it is true, was still worrying whether he would get his Seconds. But Lovelace and Gordon talked of nothing but the Thirds. The Colts' matches were over, and on House games one of the two House sides was always a trial Thirds. Edwards, a heavy, clumsy scrum-half, was captain of the side; Gordon led the scrum.

"If only we had Armour back as House captain," Hunter used to complain, "that side couldn't lose."

"And we sha'n't lose either," said Gordon; "we are going to sweep the field next term, and we are going to drive the ball over the line somehow, and G.o.d save anyone who gets in the light."

No House side ever imagines it is going to be beaten. Three c.o.c.ks have been lost by over fifty points; yet on the morning of the match half the "grovel" would be quite ready to lay heavy odds on their chance of winning, and whenever there is a good chance of victory, the House is absolutely c.o.c.ksure. The result of this is that the House is magnificent in an uphill fight, but is rather liable to fling away a victory by carelessness.

But this side was certainly "pretty hot stuff." It took a lot to stop Stewart when once he got the ball, and Lovelace was brilliant in attack.

The grovel was light, and was a little inclined to wing, but in the loose it was a big scoring combination. In the last week of the term there was a House game on, the Lower _v._ Buller's. Simonds turned out the Thirds side. It was a terrific fight. Buller's had two Seconds playing and a House cap; but the House had had the advantage of having played together. There was, at this time, a good deal of bad blood between the House and Buller's, and the play was not always quite clean.

There was a good deal of fisting in the scrum. Gordon was in great form; he scored the first try with a long dribble, and led the pack well.

Lovelace dropped a goal from a mark nearly midway between the twenty-five and the half-way line. Collins scrambled over the corner from a line out. Buller's only scored once, when Aspinall, their wing three, who had his Seconds, got a decent pa.s.s, and ran practically the whole length of the field. Towards the end, however, the light House grovel got tired and was penned in its own half. "Come on, House,"

Gordon yelled. "One more rush; let the swine have it!" The House was exhausted, it managed to keep Buller's out; but no more. This was an ominous sign. It had not been a long game.

"The Bull" had been watching the game. As the players trooped off the field, he called back Gordon. "Caruthers, here a second. You know, I don't want to interfere where it's not my business, but I don't think you should call another house 'swine.' To begin with, it's not the English idea of sport, and if there's any ill feeling between two houses in a school, especially the two biggest, it's not good for the school.

Do you see what I mean?"

"Oh yes, sir. I didn't mean----"

"Of course you didn't, my dear chap.... By the way; will you be young enough for the Colts' next year? You will. Good. Then it won't be at all a bad side. Collins and Foster were quite good; and you played a really good game."

"What did 'the Bull' want, Caruthers?" Lovelace asked as Gordon walked into the changing-room.

"Oh, nothing much. He didn't like me calling his fellows 'swine.'"

"But why the devil not? They are swine, aren't they?"

"Of course they are; but you can hardly expect 'the Bull' to realise it."

"No, perhaps not; but, my G.o.d, they are the last thing in swine, those Hazlitts and their crowd."

The House supper this year was not much, compared with the one of the year before. Simonds was not an R.D. Lovelace, and Ferguson again spoke miles above his audience. However, he was a sport, and let them do as they liked; so they drank his health and sang: _He's a Jolly Good Fellow!_ Several old boys came down, FitzMorris with an eyegla.s.s and a wonderful tie; Sandham, as usual, quite insignificant; Armour wearing the blue waistcoat of a Wadham drinking club. Meredith had been expected, but at the last moment he had found his debts so much in excess of a very generous allowance that he would have to retrench a little. It was a pity; but in the Bullingdon living is not cheap and Meredith was a great blood.

The prize-giving this term afforded little comfort to Gordon; he was easily bottom of V.A. Rather a collapse, but still one has to keep up with things. It does not do to lose sight of the really important issues of life, and Gordon had certainly been a social success. He travelled up to London with Ferguson and Tester, and felt no small part of a giant when Collins entered their carriage, suddenly saw Ferguson, and with inaudible apologies vanished quickly down the corridor. Olympus was not so very far off.

CHAPTER II: HEALTHY PHILISTINISM

During the Christmas holidays there appeared in a certain periodical one of the usual attacks on the Public School system. It repeated all the old arguments about keeping abreast of the times, and doing more modern languages and less cla.s.sics. The writer had nothing new to say, and, like most other such attacks, his jeremiad was in an hour or two forgotten. But at Fernhurst it did have some effect, for it gave Henry Trundle the idea of forming a special cla.s.s for French enthusiasts.

Henry Trundle was one of the French masters. He was entirely English, had won his Blue for golf at Oxford, and had got a Double First. He also was quite incapable of teaching anything. His form made no pretence of keeping order; the noise that proceeded from his cla.s.s-room could be heard anywhere within a radius of a hundred yards. And yet he was not a bad fellow; he was a good husband, and his children were very fond of him. His domestic virtues, however, were sadly lost on Fernhurst, who looked on him as a general buffoon, a hopeless a.s.s. His cla.s.s-room was considered a sort of Y.M.C.A. entertainment hall, where there was singing and dancing, and a mild check on excessive rioting.

At the beginning of the new term the Chief announced that in the upper school one hour every day would be devoted to the study of either French, maths or Latin. Each boy would choose his subject. Mr Reddon would superintend the maths, Mr Trundle the French; for Latin each boy would go to his own form master. To the hard-working, who had prizes before their eyes, this scheme presented few attractions; as scholars it would not be to their advantage to miss any cla.s.sical hours, and French was useless in scholars.h.i.+ps. Macdonald, when he took down the names of those who were to do Latin, found all those in front staying with him, and all those behind going elsewhere. Macdonald laughed up his sleeve.

Indeed Trundle's cla.s.s-room was filled with the most arrant collection of frauds that have ever sat together this side of the Inferno. It was largely a School House gathering. Lovelace was there; Hunter, Mansell, Gordon, Archie and Collins. Christy's house supplied d.y.k.e, a fine footballer and a splendid ragger; Claremont's sent two typical dormice in Forbes and Scobie; Buller's provided no one. Briault hailed from Rogers. It was his boast that he could imitate any kind of animal from a dog to a hyena. Benson, the only member of Abercrombie's, was entirely insignificant, and actually did some work for the first two lessons. But it was impossible to work long in such surroundings; and tales of the extra French set are still told in whispers, after lights out, in the upper dormitories.

The opening was sensational. No sooner had Trundle taken his seat than d.y.k.e leapt to his feet, jumped on the desk, jumped off it into the vast paper basket, upset that, charged up to Trundle, shook him by the hand, and began to pour out words: "My dear sir, how are you? How is Mrs Trundle, and the little Trundles? Have you had a pleasant Christmas? I have, sir. This, sir, is your extra French set. The French set--Mr Trundle; Mr Trundle--the French set." Amid a beating of desks d.y.k.e returned to his seat. Trundle was used to this. But he had rather hoped his new set would be composed for the most part of honest young scholars. It was a disappointment; still, he had grown used to it. Life had not been too kind to him.

"Now, let me see," he began, "who's the senior man here?"

Immediately everyone except Benson stood up. "I am, sir."

"But you can't all be the senior."

"Yes, sir; we are," was the unanimous answer.

"You see, sir," Gordon explained, "I am the cleverest and should be the senior, but Mansell there, that dolt with the tie-pin, has been longer in the school, and he's got his Seconds, and rather fancies himself.

d.y.k.e has taken longer to reach IV. A than anyone else in the school's history, and thinks that a sufficient claim to be senior. Lovelace, oh, well, he's--well, I don't know what he is. Lovelace, you swine, what are you?"

"Confound you, man!" shouted the enraged three-quarter. "Who the h.e.l.l----"

"Lovelace," broke in Trundle, "I think you may keep your reflections on the future life till afterwards. We will sit in alphabetical order."

It is incredible how long it takes for ten boys to change their places.

It was a long process. Books fell to the right and to the left. There were murmurs of "d.a.m.n you, man, that's my grammar!" or "Confound you, Benson!" "Where the h.e.l.l is my dictionary?" Twice Benson had been sent flying into the waste-paper basket; three times had d.y.k.e driven a compa.s.s into the backside of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To crown everything, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight.

Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under Trundle's desk; Gordon endeavoured to get through a window that was hardly a foot square. Macdonald's cla.s.s-room was just the other side of the V. A green; he chuckled to himself. "I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I think we shall have to put him on to construe when he returns. If he goes to music-hall shows in school time he must pay for it, you know."

There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder rang the noise of the French students. A question had arisen as to what book they should read that term. Everyone was shouting the name of his favourite author. "Let's do _The Little Thing_," yelled d.y.k.e. "No; de Maupa.s.sant,"

shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: "I saw one of his books in a shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot stuff." Then louder again: "Let's have de Maupa.s.sant." "No; _The Black Tulip_," Lovelace implored, and went on in a stage whisper: "Now don't be silly fools, I have got a crib of this. Have some sense." "You don't imagine we're going to prepare the stuff, do you?" was Hunter's retort. Above the uproar Forbes' voice drawled: "I say, if there's a French translation of _Five Nights_, let's read that. I know the book pretty well by heart."

It was ultimately decided to read _six contes_ by Francois Coppee; but by the time the decision had been reached, the hour had been exhausted.

Rather sadly Trundle watched the set pour out into the cloister, shouting and laughing. Even masters have souls. Boys don't realise this.

Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. Sometimes Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was singing: _Meet me under the Roses_, while Gordon was giving a lively if inaccurate translation.

"Fletcher, stop that singing!"

"Mayn't I sing, sir?"