The Loom of Youth Read online

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  About the middle of the term was the field day at Salisbury Plain. Most of the Public Schools were present; it was a noble affair from the general’s point of view. The school, however, considered it a putrid sweat. For hours they pounded over ploughed fields and the day dragged slowly on to its weary close and two hundred very tired privates at last fell into a six-fifty train.

  Two days later a notice was brought round by the school custor.“Roll for all those who went to Salisbury Plain on Wednesday in the big schoolroom at six P.M.” There is nothing quite so enjoyable as the sensation that a big row is on, in which you yourself have no part. Gordon trembled with excitement. He whispered excitedly to the man on his left, Lidderdale, a man in Rogers’: “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Some silly ass put his bayonet through a carriage window. Rogers was gassing about it in the dormitories last night.”

  “Oh!” said Gordon. Very disappointedly he returned to his academic activities. He had had hopes of some splendid row, and after all, it was only about a silly ass and a bayonet. Rotten! Fancy being made late for tea because of that. But, as it turned out, his hopes were satisfied. When he reached the big schoolroom, everything certainly looked most formal. In front of the big dais where the choir stood during the concerts sat all the masters in a half-circle. The Chief sat in the centre.

  “Are they all here, Udal?” the Chief asked the senior sergeant.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Chief rose.

  “I have to address you tonight on a very serious subject. During the field day last Wednesday, someone in this room disgraced not only his school, but the King’s uniform. An officer from another school has written to tell me that he overheard two of you talking outside the canteen in language that would disgrace a costermonger. I sincerely wish he had taken their names at once. As it is, I do not know their names. The officer in question said that both boys were over seventeen, and that the shorter of the two said nothing at all, as far as he could hear. Now I want the names of both those boys. If they own up to me tonight, I shall most certainly deal very severely with one at least of them. If they do not come to me of their own free will, I may be forced to ask the officer to come down and identify the boys, in which case both will from that instant cease to be members of Fernhurst School.”

  In a state of high excitement the school poured down to tea.

  “I bet it’s someone in Christy’s,” said Bradford.

  Christy believed in leaving his house entirely to his prefects. It was a good way of avoiding responsibility; but his choice of prefects was not altogether wise.

  “Do you think the men will own up?” said Gordon.

  “Not unless they’re most abandoned fools,” replied Lovelace.

  There was only one topic of conversation at tea, and afterwards Lovelace, Hobson and Gordon discussed the affair keenly in No. 1. They all agreed that the men would not own up, and the general opinion was that someone in Christy’s was responsible. Discussion raged fiercely as to who it was. Gordon was all for it being Isaacs, Lovelace for Everington, Hunter for Mead. The point was being debated, when Tester and Bradford came in.

  “Hullo, come in,” shouted Gordon, “we are having a great fight about this. I say Isaacs is the most likely man. What do you think?”

  Tester looked round carefully, and then began anxiously:

  “Look here, you men; swear you won’t tell a soul if we tell you something.”

  The oath was taken.

  “Well, it’s us!”

  There was a hush. “Good Gawd!” said Hunter. Silence ensued; but curiosity soon overcame surprise.

  “What did you say, by the by?” asked Gordon.

  Tester repeated as far as he could remember the exact words.

  “Yes, you know; it was a bit hot, wasn’t it? I expect you opened the blighter’s eyes a bit. He wasn’t used to that sort of literature.”

  In spite of themselves Tester and Bradford laughed. They had been vaguely aware of a tired-looking figure in a Sam Browne as they left the canteen. He had looked “some ass.” But Gordon soon became serious again.

  “What are you men going to do? Of course you won’t own up.”

  “We can’t very well. I am in the Sixth and Bradford’s had one row this term, and of course, I was the criminal. I am supposed to be a responsible personage.”

  “Of course, owning up’s out of the question.”

  “But do you think anything will happen?” Bradford was a little frightened. “I mean will there be a sort of general inspection?”

  “You bet there won’t. When a master begs men to own up, it means that he’s up the spout. It’s much more fun catching a fellow red-handed. And, after all, you two are the last people anyone would think of.”

  “Of course, it’s all right,” said Lovelace; “there’s only one thing to do. You talk of nothing else but this rotten affair; talk about it in the Toe, in the changing-room, in form, in chapel, if you like. Ask people you meet if they’ve owned up. Treat the whole thing as a glorious rag.”

  “Yes,” shouted Gordon, “let’s go down to Rudd and tell him if he doesn’t own up we’ll give him hell.”

  And in truth the next half-hour was for Rudd very hell of very hell. His existence just now was not very pleasant. If he had been good at footer all his domestic failings would have been forgiven him. But he was not; he loathed the game, though at times he would have given anything to be of some use. Strangely enough, at Oxford he found people respected his brains, and no one hated him because he could not drop goals from the twenty-five. Life is full of compensations.

  Lovelace and Tester were both supreme actors. That night in the dormitory they were full of the subject. After lights out, they kept the whole place in a roar of laughter. Bradford joined in a bit, but he was still nervous; visions rose up before him of an officer passing down the ranks, suddenly seizing him, and saying: “This is the man.” It was hardly a ravishing thought; but it was useless to go back on a lie. Tester realised this. As Ferguson came through he called out:

  “I say, Ferguson, you know you’d better go up to the Chief and tell him you did it.”

  Ferguson was, like the Boy Scout, always prepared.

  “My good man, you don’t surely imagine I am so devoid of good feeling and have such a hazy conception of the higher life as not to inform the Headmaster. I have just returned from breaking the news to him. He took it quite well on the whole. It was a touching scene. I nearly wept.”

  Betteridge then arose, and gave an imitation of a Rogers’ sermon.

  “Well, Ferguson, I must own that I am sorry to lose you. I would give much to retain you here. But dis aliter visunr. you must go. You are expelled. Between the Scylla of over-elation and the Charybdis of despair you have a long time steered the bark of the School House. But one failing wipes away many virtues. And we must not discriminate between the doer and the deed, the actor and the action, the sinner and the sin. The same punishment for all. But in that paradisal state where suns sink not nor flowers fade, there will be a sweet reunion.”

  It was pure Rogers. The dormitory rocked with laughter. Tester began to give his impressions of what the officer must have looked like. There was a heated argument as to whether he was a parson. Mansell thought not.

  “A fellow who knows his Bible well would not be shocked with a little swearing. I bet some of the bits in Genesis and Samuel are hotter than anything the blighter said. It was probably some dotard who reads Keats.”

  This seemed a sound piece of reasoning.

  Next day the rumour spread round the school that a half-holiday was going to be stopped, as no one had owned up.

  “Safety,” said Tester. “That means the chase is given up.”

  But the school, which, up to now, had treated the affair as a joke, began to get annoyed. Tolerance and broadmindedness were all right as long as their own interests were secure; but when it came to a half-holiday being stopped because some blig
hter had not the decency to own up—

  “It’s a scandal,” said Fletcher, in front of the House studies. “First this blighter does the school a lot of harm by swearing; and then he is in too much of a funk to own up, and we get in a row for it. Man must be a colossal swine.”

  He forgot that last night he had been treating the whole thing as a joke. Rogers was passing by up the Headmaster’s drive on the way to his class-room, and overheard this outburst of righteous indignation. His heart was rejoiced to see such a good moral tone in the school. As he said in the common room: “It makes one proud to see what a sane, unprejudiced view the school takes of this unsavoury incident.”

  Lovelace now hit on a great plan. “Let’s organise a strike. Why should we go into school tomorrow? If we can get enough to cut, we can’t be punished. Let’s canvass.”

  The fiery cross of rebellion was flung down the study passages. With lists of paper in their hands, Hunter, Mansell, Lovelace and Gordon (Tester thought himself too big a blood for such a proceeding) dashed into study after study urging their inhabitants to sign on for the great strike.

  “Come on, you men,” Hunter said. “It is the idea of a lifetime. If enough don’t turn up, nothing can happen. You can’t sack the whole school.”

  A few bright rebels like Archie Fletcher signed on at once. Rudd, too, thought it safer to put his name down. But the average person was more cautious.

  “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 God save anyone who gets in the light.”

  No House side ever imagines it is going to be beaten. Three Cocks 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 cocksure. 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 A spinall, their wing three, who had his Seconds, got a decent pass, 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 God, 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 eyeglass 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 classics. 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 class 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 class-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
ss. His class-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 classical hours, and French was useless in scholarships. 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 class-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 Dyke, 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 Dyke 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 Dyke 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.