Kathleen Part 2

"Falstaff!" cried several voices.

"Why not do two chapters a week," said Carter. "I'll do one, and Goblin can do another. Let's meet in my rooms."

This was agreed to, and after much scuffling with greatcoats and scarves the guests tramped off down the stairs and out into the rainy quad. Forbes could hear them, a minute later, thundering with their heels on the huge iron-studded college gate as they waited for the porter to let them out. The room was foul with smoke, and he opened a window over the gardens letting in a gush of chill sweet air and rain. Through the darkness he could hear many chimes, counting eleven. He looked wearily at the scribbled notes for his essay on Danton and Robespierre: then shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.

III

By the time that Carter and King had written their chapters and read them aloud, the Scorpions were all frankly adorers of Kathleen; by midterm she had become an obsession. Eric Twiston and Bob Graham, "doing a Cornstalk" (as walking on Cornmarket Street is elegantly termed) were wont to dub any really delightful girl they saw as "a Kathleen sort of person." At the annual dinner of the club, which took place in a private dining room at the "Clarry" (the Clarendon Hotel) in February, Forbes was called upon to respond to the toast "The Real Kathleen." His voice, tremulous with emotion and absinthe frappe, nearly failed him; but he managed to stammer a few phrases which, thought at the time to be extemporaneous, called forth loud applause; but it was found later that he had jotted them down on the tablecloth during the soup and fish courses. "Fellow Scorpers," he said, "I mean you chaps, look here, I'm not much at this dispatch-box business, but--hem--I want to say that I regard Kathleen with feelings of iridescent emotion. I feel sure that she is a p.r.o.nounced brunette and that the Blue Flapper we all used to see at the East Ocker is nowhere. I've been playing lackers (lacrosse) this term and I give you my word that when I've been b.l.o.o.d.y well done in and had an absolute needle of funk I had only to think of Kathleen to buck me up. Hem. Now gentlemen, you may think I'm drunk (loud cries of _No_!) but I want to say in truth and soberness that any man who thinks he's got Kathleen for bondwoman--hem--has me to reckon with!"

The applause at this speech was so immoderate that a party of Boston ladies dining with a Chautauqua lecturer in the Clarendon's main dining room, shuddered and began looking up time-tables to Stratford.

By this time the serial story had grown to the length of seven or eight chapters, and the Scorpions became so engrossed in the fortunes of the Kenyons (so, for convenience, they had dubbed Kathleen's family) that at the dinner a separate health was drunk to each character in the story, and one of the members was called upon to reply. Falstaff Carter responded to the toast to "Joe,"

and recounted his secret investigations into the number of members of the university who bore that name. He claimed to have tabulated from the university almanac 256 men so christened, and offered to go into the life history of any or all of them. He said that he was happy to say that the only Joseph who seemed at all likely to be a poet was a scrubby little man at Teddy Hall, who wore spectacles and a ragged exhibitioner's gown and did not seem to threaten a serious rivalry to any Scorpion bent on supplanting him. "I also find," he added, "that the master of the New College and Magdalen beagles is called Joe. He is a member of the Bullingdon, and if he is the cheese it's distinctly mooters whether any of the Scorpers have a ghostly show; but I vote, gentlemen, that we don't crock at this stage of the game."

It was decided at the dinner that during the ensuing Easter vacation the Scorpions should make a trip to Wolverhampton, en ma.s.se, for the purpose of picketing Bancroft Road and finding out what Kathleen was really like. And then, after singing "langers and G.o.dders" (Auld Lang Syne and G.o.d Save the King) the meeting broke up and the members dispersed darkly in various directions to avoid the proctors.

IV

Friday the fifteenth of March was the last day of term. The Scorpions, busy in their various ways with the hundred details that have to be attended to before "going down," were all pleasantly excited by the antic.i.p.ation of their quest, which was to begin on the morrow. Carter, shaking hands with the warden of New College in the college hall (a pleasant little formality performed at the end of each term) absent-mindedly replied "Wolverhampton" when the warden asked him where he was going to spend the vacation. He was then hard put to it to avoid a letter of introduction to the vicar of St. Philip's in that city, an old pupil of the warden. King, bicycling rapidly down the greasy Turl with an armful of books, collided vigorously with another cyclist at the corner of the High. They both sprawled on the curb, bikes interlocked. "My G.o.d, sir!" cried the Goblin; "Why not watch where you're going?" Then he saw it was Johnny Blair. "Sorry, Goblin," said the latter; "I--I was thinking about Kathleen." "So was I," said King, picking up his books. And in defiance of the University statute of 1636 (still unrepealed) which warns students against "frequenting dicing houses, taverns, or booths where the nicotian herb is sold," they went into Hedderly's together to buy tobacco.

After breakfast the next morning they were all in cabs on their way to the Great Western Station. It was a mild and sunny day, with puffs of spring in the air. Who can ever forget the Sat.u.r.day morning at the end of term when the men "go down"? Long lines of hansoms spinning briskly toward the station, with bulging portmanteaus on the roof; the wide sunny sweep of the Broad with the 'bus trundling past Trinity gates; a knot of tall youths in the 'varsity uniform of gray "bags" and brown tweed norfolk, smoking and talking at the Balliol lodge--and over it all the clang of a hundred chimes, the gray fingers of a thousand spires and pinnacles, the moist blue sky of England.... Ah, it is the palace of youth, or it was once.

The Scorpions met on the dingy north-bound platform. Graham, Keith, and Twiston had been obliged to scratch owing to other more imperative plans; but five members boarded the 10 o'clock train in high spirits. Forbes, Carter, King, Blair, and Whitney-- they filled a third-cla.s.s smoker with tobacco and jest.

"Now, Goblin," cried Falstaff, as the train ran past the Port Meadow, and the Radcliffe dome dropped from view; "Open those sealed orders! You promised to draw up the rules of the game."

King pulled a paper from his pocket.

"I jotted down some points," he said. "This is the time to discuss them."

_"Rules to be Observed by the Scorpions on the Great Kathleen Excursion_

"1. The headquarters of the expedition will be the Blue Boar Inn at Wolverhampton. (I've written to them to engage rooms.)

"2. The Kriegspiel will begin to-day at 2 P.M., and manoeuvres will continue without intermission until someone is declared the winner, or until time is called.

"3. The object of the contest is to make the acquaintance of Kathleen; to engage her in friendly conversation; to win her confidence, and to induce her to accept an invitation to Commem, or Eights Week.

"4. Any deception, strategy, or tactics which are not calculated to give intolerable distress or embarra.s.sment to Kathleen and her family, are allowable.

"5. If by noon on Tuesday no one shall have succeeded in making friends with Kathleen, the game shall be declared off."

"Suppose she's not at home?" said Whitney.

"We'll have to chance that."

"What time do we get there?"

"I've ordered lunch at the Blue Boar at one o'clock. This train gets to Wolvers at 12:30."

It was a merry ride. The story of Kathleen as they had written it was discussed pro and con.; the usual protests were launched at Carter for having in his chapter lowered the theme to the level of burlesque; praise was accorded to the Goblin for the dexterity with which he had rescued the plot. Blair's chapter had been full of American slang which had to be explained to the others.

"Joe," the Rhodes Scholar hero, had shown a vein of fine gold under Blair's hands: he bade fair to win the charming Kathleen, although the story had not been finished owing to the examinations which had fallen upon the brotherhood toward the end of term.

The game, begun in pure jest, had taken on something of romantic earnest: there was not one of these young men who did not see in Kathleen his own ideal of slender, bright-cheeked girlhood.

And when the train pulled into Wolverhampton, they tumbled out of their smoking carriage with keen expectation.

V

Perhaps the best way to pursue the next episodes in the quest is in the words of Johnny Blair, the Rhodes Scholar, who jotted down some notes in a journal he kept:

We got to Wolverhampton 12:25, Ingersoll time. Had a jolly trip on the train, all the Scorps laying bets as to who would be first to meet Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't want to let these English blighters get ahead of me, especially after all the ragging Indiana Joe got in the story.

Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run empty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand.

Saw the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform--the real English type; tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like almond blossoms. She had on a blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliest figure I ever saw, perfect ankle, but the usual heavy brogues on her feet. Why do English girls always wear woollen stockings? Was so taken with her I almost missed the train. She got into a third-cla.s.s compartment farther up the train. The others were all bickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her.

I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. They had all brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacation baggage. My idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had only my rucksack, left rest of my stuff at coll., to be forwarded later. While the other chaps were getting their stuff out of the goods van I spotted Miss Flapper getting off the train. She got into a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was standing near. I heard her say to cabby: "318, Bancroft Road!" Lord, was I tickled? I kept mum.

Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, but Goblin and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place for Kathleen to live! Fine old church, though, and lovely market place. We kept our eyes open for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign.

When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the coffee room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful cheddar cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of it--all drank Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got up from the table.

All the others beat it off immediately in different directions-- looking for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more finesse would be needed. I started off with the others, then pretended I had left my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I was going to look up the town directory, to find Kathleen's name-- knowing the address, that would be easy. But there was Goblin doing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it up together.

The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent, F.S.A., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put him down as an "antiquarian." Kathleen's father, evidently.

Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe and pondered.

The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they would do when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be a book agent and get into the house that way. Another said he would be the grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someone else suggested dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and going there to fix some imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were not fools, I imagined it wouldn't be long before they'd get wise to the fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts was picketing the house.

Probably they'd put the police on them. Also, there's n.o.body harder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives himself away at every turn. If "Fred" was around he'd be sure to smell a rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as a plumber, and get in the house on some pretext or other--still wearing his wrist-watch!

I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft Road for a while and try to pull wires from a distance:

The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks out over the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the square I had noticed a little post office. You can send a telegram from any post office in England, and I thought that would be my best entering wedge. The word "antiquarian" in the directory had given me a notion. On a blank I composed the following message, after some revisions:

MISS KATHLEEN KENT, 318, Bancroft Road, WOLVERHAMPTON.

My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all.

JOE.