HORACEArVACHELL 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013233576 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6043.A17H6 1906 
 
 The hill, a romance of friendship. 
 
 3 1924 013 233 576 
 
THE HILL 
 
THE HILL 
 
 A ROMANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 BY HORACE A. VACHELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SROTHBRSf" BTC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 1910 
 
Copyright, 1906 
 
 BY 
 
 H. A. VACHELL 
 
 Published, February, 1906 
 
To 
 
 GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL 
 
 I DEDICATE this Romance of Friendship to you with the sincerest 
 pleasure and affection. You were the first to suggest that I should 
 write a book about contemporary life at Harrow; you gave me 
 the principal idea; you have furnished me with notes innumerable; 
 you have revised every page of the manuscript; and you are a 
 peculiarly keen Harrovian. 
 
 In making this public declaration of my obligations to you, I 
 take the opportunity of stating that the characters in " The Hill," 
 whether masters or boys, are not portraits, although they may be 
 called, truthfully enough, composite photographs; and that the 
 episodes of Drinking and Gambling are founded on isolated inci- 
 dents, not on habitual practices. Moreover, in attempting to 
 reproduce the curious admixture of " strenuousness and sentiment " 
 — ^your own phrase — which animates so vitally Harrow life, I 
 have been obliged to select the less common types of Harrovian. 
 Only the elect are capable of such friendship as John Verney enter- 
 tained for Henry Desmond; and few boys, happily, are possessed 
 of such powers as Scaife is shown to exercise. But that there are 
 such boys as Verney and Scaife, nobody knows better than your- 
 self. 
 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL. 
 
 Beechwood, February zz, 1905. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTBR PAGB 
 
 I The Manor 1 
 
 11 C^SAR 24 
 
 III Kraifale 46 
 
 IV Torpids 76 
 
 V Fellowship 92 
 
 VI A Revelation 120 
 
 VH Reform 140 
 
 VIII Verney Boscobel ... 161 
 
 IX Black Spots 184 
 
 X Decapitation 207 
 
 XI Self-questioning 227 
 
 XII "Lord's" 249 
 
 XIII "If I Perish, I Perish" 278 
 
 XIV Good Night 303 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE MANOR 
 
 "Five hundred faces, and all so strange! 
 Life in front of me — ^home behind, 
 I felt like a waif before the wind 
 Tossed on an ocean of shock and change. 
 
 Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by, 
 When your heart will thrill 
 At the thought of the Hill, 
 And the day that you came so strange and shy." 
 
 The train slid slowly out of Harrow station. 
 
 Five minutes before, a man and a boy had been 
 walking up and down the long platform. The boy 
 wondered why the man, his uncle, was so strangely 
 silent. Then, suddenly, the elder John Verney had 
 placed his hands upon the shoulders of the younger 
 John, looking down into eyes as grey and as steady 
 as his own. 
 
 " You'll find plenty of fellows abusing Harrow," 
 he said quietly; " but take it from me, that the fault 
 lies not in Harrow, but in them. Don't look 
 so solemn. You're about to take a header into a 
 big river. In it are rocks and rapids ; but you know 
 how to swim, and after the first plunge you'll enjoy 
 it — as I did — amazingly." 
 
 " Ra — ther," said John. 
 
2 THE HILL 
 
 In the New Forest, where John had spent most of 
 his life at his uncle's place of Verney Boscobel, this 
 uncle, his dead father's only brother, was worshipped 
 as a hero. Indeed he filled so large a space in the 
 boy's imagination, that others were cramped for 
 room. John Verney in India, in Burmah, in Africa 
 (he took continents in his stride), moved colossal. 
 And when uncle and nephew met, behold, the great 
 traveller stood not much taller than John himself I 
 That first moment, the instant shattering of a prec- 
 ious delusion, held anguish. But now, as the train 
 whirled away the silent, thin, little man, he began 
 to expand again. John saw him scaling heights,, cut- 
 ting a path through impenetrable forests, wading 
 across dismal swamps, an ever-moving figure, seek- 
 ing the hitherto unknowable and irreclaimable, in- 
 troducing order where chaos reigned supreme, a 
 world-famous pioneer. 
 
 How good to think that John Verney was his 
 uncle, blood of his blood, his, his, his — for all time ! 
 
 And, long ago, John, senior, had come to Harrow; 
 had felt what John, junior, felt to the core — the dull, 
 grinding wrench of separation, the sense, not yet to 
 be analysed by a boy, of standing alone upon the 
 edge of the river indeed, into which he must plunge 
 headlong in a few minutes. Well, Uncle John had 
 taken his " header " with a stout heart — who dared 
 to doubt that? Surely he had not waited, shivering 
 and hesitating, at the jumplng-off place. 
 
 The train was now out of sight. John slipped 
 the uncle's tip into his purse, and walked out of the 
 
THE MANOR 3 
 
 station and on to the road beyond, the road which 
 led to the top of the Hill. 
 
 The Hill. 
 
 Presently the boy reached some Iron palings and 
 a wicket-gate. His uncle had pointed out this gate 
 and the steep path beyond which led to the top of 
 the Hill, to the churchyard, to the Peachey tomb on 
 which Byron dreamed,^ to the High Street — and to 
 the Manor. It was pleasant to remember that he 
 was going to board at the Manor, with its traditions, 
 its triumphs, its record. In his uncle's day the 
 Manor ranked first among the boarding-houses. Not 
 a doubt disturbed John's conviction that it ranked 
 first still. 
 
 The boy stared upward with a keen gaze. Had 
 the mother seen her son at that moment, she might 
 have discerned a subtle likeness between uncle and 
 nephew, not the likeness of the flesh, but of the 
 spirit. 
 
 September rains, followed by a day of warm sun- 
 shine, had lured from the earth a soft haze which 
 
 1 Byron, writing to John Murray, May a6, 1822, and giving 
 directions for the burial of poor little Allegra's body, says — 
 
 "I wish it to be buried in Harrow Church. There is a spot in 
 the churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking 
 towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name 
 of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours 
 as a boy; this was my favourite spot; but, as I wish to erect a 
 tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the 
 church." 
 
 See also "Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard ol 
 Harrow," in " Hours of Idleness." 
 
4 THE HILL 
 
 obscured the big fields at the foot of the Hill. John 
 could make out fences, poplars, elms, Scotch firs, and 
 spectrai houses. But, above, everything was clear. 
 The scht>ol-buildings, such as he could see, stood out 
 boldly against a cloudless sky, and above these soared 
 the spire of Harrow Church, pointing an inexorable 
 finger upwards. 
 
 Afterwards this spot became dear to John Verney, 
 because here, where mists were chill and blind- 
 ing, he had been impelled to leave the broad high- 
 road and take a path which led into a shadowy 
 future. In obedience to an impulse stronger than 
 himself he had taken the short cut to what awaited 
 him. 
 
 For a few minutes he stood outside the palings, 
 trying to choke down an abominable lump in his 
 throat. This was not his first visit to Harrow. At 
 the end of the previous term, he had ascended the 
 Hill to pass the entrance examination. A master 
 from his preparatory school accompanied him, an 
 Etonian, who had stared rather superciliously — so 
 John thought — at buildings less venerable than those 
 which Henry VI. raised near Windsor. John, who 
 had perceptions, was elusively "conscious that his com- 
 panion, too much of a gentleman to give his thoughts 
 words, might be contrasting a yeoman's work with a 
 king's; and when the Etonian, gazing across the 
 plains below to where Windsor lay, a soft shadow 
 upon the horizon, said abruptly, " I wish Eton had 
 been built upon a hill," John replied effusively : " Oh, 
 sir, It is decent of you to say that." The examina- 
 
THE MANOR 5 
 
 tion, however, distracted his attention from all things 
 save the papers. To his delight he found these easy, 
 and, as soon as he left the examination-room, he was 
 popped into a cab and taken back to town. Coming 
 down the flight of steps, he had seen a few boys 
 hurrying up or down the road. At these the Etonian 
 cocked a twinkling eye. 
 
 " Queer kit you Harrow boys wear," he said. 
 
 John, inordinately grateful at this recognition of 
 himself as an Harrovian, forgave the gibe. It had 
 struck him, also, that the shallow straw hat, the 
 swallow-tail coat, did look queer, but he regarded 
 them reverently as the uniform of a crack corps. 
 
 To-day, standing by the iron palings, John re- 
 viewed the events of the last hour. The view was 
 blurred by unshed tears. His uncle and he had 
 driven together to the Manor. Here, the explorer 
 had exercised his peculiar personal magnetism upon 
 the house-master, a tall, burly man of truculent as- 
 pect and speech. John realized proudly that his 
 uncle was the bigger of the two, and that the giant 
 acknowledged, perhaps grudgingly, the dwarf's 
 superiority. The talk, short enough, had wandered 
 into Darkest Africa. His uncle, as usual, said little, 
 replying almost in monosyllables to the questions of 
 his host ; but John told himself exultantly that it was 
 not necessary for Uncle John to talk; the wide world 
 knew what he had done. 
 
 Then his house-master, Rutford, had told John 
 where to buy his first straw hat. 
 
 " You can get one without an order at the be- 
 
6 THE hill; 
 
 ginning of each term," said he, in a thick, rasping 
 voice. " But you must ask me for an order if you 
 want a second." 
 
 Then he had shown John his room, to be shared 
 with two other boys, and had told him the hour of 
 lock-up. After that, an excellent tea had been eaten ; 
 after that again came the walk down the hill, the 
 tip, the firm grasp of the sinewy hand, and a final — 
 " God bless you I " 
 
 Coming to the end of these reflections, confronted 
 by the inexorable future, and the necessity, no less 
 inexorable, of stepping into it, John passed through 
 the gate. His heart fluttered furiously, and the 
 lump in the throat swelled inconveniently. John, 
 however, had provided himself with a " cure-all." 
 Plunging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a 
 cartridge, an unused twenty-bore gun cartridge. 
 Looking at this, John smiled. When he smiled he 
 became good-looking. The face, too long, plain, 
 but full of sense and humour, rounded itself into the 
 gracious curves of youth; the serious grey eyes 
 sparkled; the lips, too firmly compressed, parted, re- 
 vealing admirable teeth, small and squarely set; into 
 the cheeks, brown rather than pink, flowed a warm 
 stream of colour. 
 
 The cartridge stood for so much. Only a week 
 before, Uncle John, on his arrival from Manchuria, 
 had handed his nephew a small leather case and a 
 key. The case held a double-barrelled, hammerless, 
 ejector, twenty-bore gun, with a great name upon its 
 polished blue barrels. 
 
THE MANOR 7 
 
 The sight of the cartridge justified John's ex- 
 pectations. He put It back into his pocket, and 
 strode forward and upward. 
 
 Close to the School Chapel, John remarked a 
 curly-headed young gentleman of wonderfully pre- 
 possessing appearance, from whom emanated an air, 
 an atmosphere, of genial enjoyment which diffused 
 itself. The bricks of the school buildings seemed 
 redder and warmer, as if they were basking In this 
 sunny smile. The youth was smiling now, smiling — • 
 at John. For several hours John had been miser- 
 ably aware that surprises awaited him, but not smiles. 
 He knew no Harrovians; at his school, a small one, 
 his fellows were labelled Winchester, Eton, Welling- 
 ton ; none, curiously enough, Harrow. And already, 
 he had passed half a dozen boys, the first-comers, 
 some strangers, like himself, and in each face he had 
 read indifference. Not one had taken the trouble to 
 say, " Hullo! Who are you? " after the rough and 
 ready fashion of the private school. 
 
 And now this smiling, fascinating person was 
 actually about to address him, and In the old familiar 
 style 
 
 "Hullo I" 
 
 "Hullo!" 
 
 " I met your governor the other day." 
 
 " Did you? " John replied. His father had died 
 when John was seven. Obviously, a blunder in 
 Identity had created this genial smile. John wished 
 that his father had not died. 
 
8 THE HILLV 
 
 " Yes," pursued the smiling one, " I met him — 
 partridge-shooting at home — and he asked me to be 
 on the look-out for you. It's queer you should turn 
 up at once, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes," said John. 
 
 " Your governor looked awfully fit." 
 
 " Did he? " Then John added solemnly, " My 
 governor died when I was a kid." 
 
 The other gasped; then he threw back his curly 
 head and laughed. 
 
 " I say, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to 
 laugh. If you're not Hardacre, who are you ? " 
 
 " Verney. I've just come." 
 
 " Verney? Are you any relation to the explorer? " 
 
 " Nephew," said John, blushing. 
 
 " Ah — ^you ought to have been here last Speecher."^^ 
 We cheered him, I can tell you. And the song was 
 sung: the one with his name in it." 
 
 " Yes," said John. Then he added nervously, 
 " All the same, I don't know a soul at Harrow." 
 
 Desmond smiled. The smile assured John that 
 his name would secure him a cordial welcome. Des- 
 mond added abruptly, " My father, my grandfather, 
 my uncles, and three brothers were here. It does 
 make a difference. What's your house? " 
 
 " The Manor," said John, proudly. 
 
 "Dirty Dick's!" Then, seeing consternation 
 writ large upon John's face, he added quickly, " We 
 
 1 " Speecher " — i.e. Speech Day. At Harrow " er " is a favourite 
 termination of many substantives. " Harder," for hard-ball rac- 
 quets, "Footer," " Ducker," etc. 
 
THE MANOR 9 
 
 call him Dirty Dick, you know ; but the house is — er 
 — one of the oldest and biggest — er — houses." He 
 continued hurriedly: " I'm going into Darner's next 
 term. Darner's is always chock-a-block, you know." 
 
 "Why is Rutford called 'Dirty Dick'?" John 
 asked nervously. " He doesn't look dirty." 
 
 " Oh, we've licked him into a sort of shape," said 
 Desmond. " I believe he toshes now — once a month, 
 or so." 
 
 "Toshes?" 
 
 " Tubs, you know. We call a tub a * tosh.' 
 When Dirty Dick came here he was unclean. He 
 told his form — oh! the cheek of it! — that in his 
 filthy mind one bath a week was plenty," uncon- 
 sciously the boy mimicked the thick, rasping tones — 
 " two, luxury, and three — superfluity I After that 
 he was called Dirty Dick. There's another story. 
 They say that years ago he went to a Turkish bath, 
 and after a rare good scraping the man who was 
 scraping him — ^nasty job that! — found something 
 which Dirty Dick recognized as a beastly flannel 
 shirt he had lost when he was at the 'Varsity. But 
 only the Fourth Form boys swallow that. Hullo! 
 There's a pal of mine. See you again." 
 
 He ran off gaily. John walked to the shop where 
 straw hats were sold. Here he met other new boys, 
 who regarded him curiously, but said nothing. John 
 put on his hat, and gave Rutford's name to the young 
 man who waited on him. He had an absurd feeling 
 that the young man would say, " Oh yes — Dirty 
 Dick's! " One very nice-looking pink-cheeked boy 
 
10 THE HILL 
 
 said to another boy that he was at Darner's. John 
 could have sworn that the hatter's assistant regarded 
 the pink youth with increased deference. Why had 
 Uncle John sent him to Dirty Dick's? He hurried 
 out of the shop, fuming. Then he remembered the 
 hammerless gun. After all, the Manor had been 
 the house once, and it might be the house again. 
 
 By this time the boys were arriving. Groups 
 were forming. Snatches of chatter reached John's 
 ears. " Yes, I shot a stag, a nine-pointer. My gov- 
 ernor is going to have it set up for me What? 
 
 Walked up your grouse with dogs ! We drive ours 
 
 1 had some ripping cricket, made a century in 
 
 one match- By Jove I Did you really? " 
 
 John passed on. These were " bloods," tremen- 
 dous swells, grown men with a titillating flavour of 
 the world about their distinguished persons. 
 
 A minute later he was staring disconsolately at a 
 group of his fellows just in front of Dir of Rut- 
 ford's side door. An impulse seized him to turn and 
 flee. What would Uncle John say to that? So he 
 advanced. The boys made way politely, asking no 
 questions. As he passed through he caught a few 
 eager words. " I was hoping that the brute had 
 gone. It is a sickener, and no mistake ! " 
 
 John ascended the battered, worn-out staircase, 
 wondering who the " brute " was. Perhaps a sort 
 of Flashman. John knew his Tom Brown; but 
 someone had told him that bullying had ceased to 
 be. Great emphasis had been laid on the " brute," 
 whoever he might be. 
 
THE MANOR ir 
 
 Upon the second-floor passage, he found his 
 room and one of its tenants, who nodded carelessly 
 as John crossed the threshold. 
 
 "I'm Scaife," he said. "Are you ?" He 
 
 laughed, indicating a large portmanteau, labelled, 
 " Lord Esme Kinloch." 
 
 " I'm Verney," said John. 
 
 " I've bagged the best bed," said Scaife, after a 
 pause, " and I advise you to bag the next best one, 
 over there. It was mine last term." 
 
 " I don't see the beds," said John, staring about 
 him. 
 
 Scaife pointed out what appeared to be three long, 
 narrow wardrobes. The rest of the furniture in- 
 cluded three much-battered washstands and chests of 
 drawers, four Windsor chairs, and a square table, 
 covered with innumerable inkstains and roughly- 
 carved names. 
 
 " The beds let down," Scaife said, " and during 
 first school the maids make them, and shut them up 
 again. It is considered a joke to crawl into another 
 fellow's room at night, and shut him up. You find 
 yourself standing upon your head in the dark, chok- 
 ing. It is a joke — for the other fellow." 
 
 "Did someone do that to you?" asked John. 
 
 " Yes ; a big lout in the Third Fifth," Scaife smiled 
 grimly. 
 
 " And what did you do? " 
 
 " I waited for him next day with a cricket stump. 
 There was an awful row, because I let him have it 
 a bit too hard; but I've not been shut up since. That 
 
12 THE HILL 
 
 bed Is a beast. It collapses." He chuckled. 
 " Young Kinloch won't find It quite as soft as the 
 ones at White Ladies. Well, like the rest of us, 
 he'll have to take Dirty Dick's as he finds it." 
 
 The bolt had fallen. 
 
 John asked in a quavering voice, " Then it is 
 called that? " 
 
 "Called what?" 
 
 " This house. Dirty Dick's ! " 
 
 Scaife smiled cynically. He looked about a year 
 older than John, but he had the air and manners of 
 a man of the world — so John thought. Also, he was 
 very good-looking, handsomer than Desmond, and in 
 striking contrast to that smiling, genial youth, being 
 dark, almost swarthy of complexion, with strongly- 
 marked features and rather coarse hands and feet. 
 
 " Everybody here calls it Dirty Dick's," he replied 
 curtly. 
 
 John stared helplessly. 
 
 " But," he muttered, " I heard, I was told, that the 
 Manor was the best house In the school." 
 
 " It used to be," Scaife answered. " To-day, it 
 comes jolly near being the worst. The fellows in 
 other houses are decent; they don't rub It in; but, 
 between ourselves, the Manor has gone to pot ever 
 since Dirty Dick took hold of it. Darner's is the 
 swell house now." 
 
 John began to unstrap his portmanteau. Scaife 
 puzzled him. For Instance, he displayed no curios- 
 ity. He did not put the questions always asked at 
 a Preparatory School. Without turning his thought 
 
THE MANOR 13 
 
 into words, John divined that at Harrow it was bad 
 form to ask questions. As he wanted to ask a ques- 
 tion, a very important question, this enforced silence 
 became exasperating. 
 
 Presently Scaife said, " I suppose you are one of 
 the Claydon lot? " 
 
 " No ; my home is Verney Boscobel in the New 
 Forest." 
 
 " Your name is on the panels at the head of the 
 staircase; and it's carved on a bed in the next 
 room." 
 
 " Crikey! I must go and look at it." 
 
 " You can look at the panels, of course; but don't 
 say ' Crikey 1 ' and don't go into the next room. Two 
 Fifth Form fellows have it. It would be infernal 
 cheek." 
 
 John hoped that Scaife would offer to accompany 
 him to the panels. Then he went alone. It being 
 now within half an hour of lock-up, the passages 
 were swarming with boys. Soon John would see 
 them assembled in Hall, where their names would be 
 called over by Rutford- Everybody — ^John had 
 been told — ^was expected to be present at this first 
 call-over, except a few boys who might be coming 
 from a distance. John worked his way along the 
 upper passage, and down the second flight of stairs 
 till he came to the first landing. Here, close to the 
 house notice-board, were some oak panels covered 
 with names and dates, all carved — so John learned 
 later — by a famous Harrow character, Sam Hoare, 
 once " Custos " of the School. The boy glanced 
 
14 THE HILL 
 
 eagerly, ardently, up and down the panels. Ah, yes, 
 here was his father's name, and here — ^hls uncle's. 
 And then out of the dull, finely-grained oak, shone 
 other names familiar to all who love the Hill and its 
 traditions. John's heart grew warm again with pride 
 in the house that had held such men. The name of 
 a great statesman and below it a mighty warrior's 
 made him thrill and tremble. They were Old Har- 
 rovians, these fellows, men whom his uncle had 
 known, men of whom his dear mother, wise soul ! 
 had spoken a thousand times. The landing and the 
 passages were roaring with the life of the present 
 moment. Boys, big and small, were chaffing each 
 other loudly. Under some circumstances, this new- 
 comer, a stranger, ignored entirely, might have felt 
 desolate and forlorn in the heart of such a crowd; 
 but John was tingling with delight and pleasure. 
 
 Suddenly, the noise moderated. John, looking 
 up, saw a big fellow slowly approaching, exchanging 
 greetings with everybody. John turned to a boy 
 close to him. 
 
 " Who is it? " he whispered. 
 
 The other boy answered curtly, " Lawrence, the 
 Head of the House." 
 
 The big fellow suddenly caught John's eyes. 
 What he read there — admiration, respect, envy — 
 brought a slight smile to his lips. 
 
 "Your name?" he demanded. 
 
 " Verney." 
 
 Lawrence held out his hand, simply and yet with 
 a certain dignity. 
 
THE MANOR 15 
 
 " I heard you were coming," he said, keenly ex- 
 amining John's face. " We can't have too many 
 Verneys. If I can do anything for you, let me 
 know." 
 
 He nodded, and strode on. John saw that several 
 boys were staring with a new interest. None, how- 
 ever, spoke to him : and he returned to his room with 
 a blushing face. Scaife had unpacked his clothes 
 and put them away; he was now surveying the bare 
 walls with undisguised contempt. 
 
 " Isn't this a beastly hole? " he remarked. 
 
 John, always interested in people rather than 
 things, examined the room carefully. Passing down 
 the passage he had caught glimpses of other rooms: 
 some charmingly furnished, gay with chintz, embel- 
 lished with pictures, Japanese fans, silver cups, and 
 other trophies. Comparing these with his own 
 apartment, John said shyly — 
 
 " It's not very beefy." 
 
 " Beefy? You smell of a private school, Verney. 
 Now, is it worth doing up? You see, I shall be in 
 
 a two-room next term. If we all chip in " he 
 
 paused. 
 
 " I've brought back two quid," said John. 
 
 Scalfe's smile indicated neither approval nor the 
 reverse. John's ingenuous confidence provoked none 
 in return. 
 
 " We'll talk about it when Kinloch arrives. I 
 wonder why his people sent him here." 
 
 John had studied some books, but not the Peerage. 
 The great name of Kinloch was new to him, not new 
 
1 6 THE HILL 
 
 to Scaife, who, for a boy, knew his " Burke " too 
 odiously well. 
 
 " Why shouldn't his people send him here ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Because," Scaife's tone was contemptuous, " be- 
 cause the Kinlochs — they're a great cricketing family 
 — go to Eton. The duke must have some reason." 
 
 "The duke?" 
 
 " Hang it, surely you have heard of the Duke of 
 Trent?" 
 
 " Yes," said John humbly. " And this is his 
 son?" He glanced at the label on the new port- 
 manteau. 
 
 " Whose son should he be? " said Scaife. " Well, 
 it's queer. The Kinlochs, as I say, have all gone to 
 Eton. It's a rum thing — very." 
 
 The clanging of a bell brought both boys to their 
 feet. 
 
 " Lock-up, and call-over," said Scaife. " Come 
 on ! " 
 
 They pushed their way down the passage. Sev- 
 eral boys addressed Scaife. 
 
 " Hullo, Demon ! — Here's the old Demon ! — 
 Demon, I thought you were going to be sacked I " 
 
 To these and other sallies Scaife replied with his 
 slightly ironical smile. John perceived that his com- 
 panion was popular and at the same time peculiar; 
 quite different from any boy he had yet met. 
 
 They filed into a big room — the dining-room of 
 the house — a square, lofty hall, with three long tables 
 in it. On the walls hung some portraits of famous 
 
THE MANOR 17 
 
 Old Harrovians. As a room it was disappointing 
 at first sight, almost commonplace. But in it, John 
 soon found out, everything for weal or woe which 
 concerned the Manor had taken place or had been 
 discussed. There were two fireplaces and two large 
 doors. The boys passed through one door; upon 
 the threshold of the other stood the butler, holding a 
 silver salver, with a sheet of paper on it. 
 
 " What cheek ! " murmured Scaife. 
 
 "Eh? "said John. 
 
 " Dirty Dick isn't here. Just like him, the slacker! 
 And when he does come over on our side of the 
 Hoiise, he slimes about in carpet slippers — the 
 beast!" 
 
 Lawrence entered as Scaife spoke. John saw that 
 his strongly-marked eyebrows went up, when he per- 
 ceived the butler. He approached, and took the 
 sheet of paper. The butler said impressively — 
 
 " Mr. Rutford is busy. Will you call over, 
 sir?" 
 
 At any rate, the butler, Dumbleton, was worthy 
 of the best traditions of the Manor. He had a 
 shrewd, clean-shaven face, and the deportment of an 
 archbishop. The Head of the House took the 
 paper, and began to call over the names. Each boy, 
 as his name was called, said, " Here," or, if he 
 wished to be funny, " Here, sir! " 
 
 "Verney?" 
 
 The name rang out crisply. 
 
 " Here, sir," said John. 
 
 The Head of the House eyed him sharply. 
 
i8 THE HILL' 
 
 "KInloch?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Kinloch?" 
 
 Scaife answered dryly : " Kinloch's portmanteau 
 has come." Then Dumbleton said in his smooth, 
 bland voice. " His lordship is in the drawing-room 
 with Mr. Rutford." 
 
 The boys exchanged knowing glances. Scaife 
 looked contemptuous. The next moment the last 
 name had been called, and the boys scurried into the 
 passages. Lawrence was the first to leave the hall. 
 Impulsively, John rushed up to him. 
 
 " I didn't mean to be funny, I didn't really," he 
 panted. 
 
 " Quite right. It doesn't pay," Lawrence smiled 
 grimly, " for new boys to be funny. I saw you 
 didn't mean it." 
 
 Lawrence spoke in a loud voice. John realized 
 that he had so spoken purposely, trying to wipe out 
 a new boy's first blunder. 
 
 " Thanks awfully," said John. 
 
 He reached his room to find thre§ other boys 
 busily engaged in abusing their house-master. They 
 took no notice of John, who leaned against the 
 wall. 
 
 " His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. 
 Rutford." 
 
 A freckle-faced, red-headed youth, with a big 
 elastic mouth had imitated Dumbleton admirably. 
 
 " What a snob Dick is I " drawled a very tall, very 
 thin, aristocratic-looking boy. 
 
THE MANOR 19 
 
 " And fool," added Scaife. " This sort of thing 
 makes him loathed." 
 
 " It is a sell his being here." 
 
 All three fell to talking. The question still fes- 
 tering in John's mind was answered within a minute. 
 The " brute " was Rutford. Towards the end of 
 the previous term gossip had it that the master of the 
 Manor had been offered an appointment elsewhere. 
 Whereat the worthier spirits in the ancient house re- 
 joiced. Now the joy was turned into wailing and 
 gnashing of teeth. 
 
 " Is he a beast to us? " said John. 
 
 The freckle-faced boy answered affably, " That 
 depends. His Imperial Highness " — ^he kicked the 
 new portmanteau hard — " will not find Mr. Richard 
 Rutford a beast. Far from it. And he's civil to 
 the Demon, because his papa is a man of many shekels. 
 But to mere outsiders, like myself, a beast of beasts ; 
 ay, the very king of beasts, is — Dirty Dick." 
 
 And then — oh, horrors! — the door of No. 15 
 opened, and Rutford appeared, followed by a seem- 
 ingly young and very fashionably dressed lady. The 
 boys jumped to their feet. All, except Scaife, looked 
 preternaturally solemn. The house-master nodded 
 carelessly. 
 
 " This is Scaife, Duchess," he said in his thick, 
 rasping tones. " Scaife and Verney, let me present 
 you to the Duchess of Trent." 
 
 He mouthed the illustrious name, as if it were a 
 large and ripe greengage. 
 
 The duchess advanced, smiling graciously. 
 
20 THE HILL 
 
 " These " — Rutford named the other boys — " are 
 Egerton, Lovell, and — er — Duff." 
 
 Scaife, alone of those present, appreciated the 
 order in which his schoolfellows had been named. 
 Egerton — known as the Caterpillar — ^was the son of 
 a Guardsman; Lovell's father was a judge; Duff's 
 father an obscure parson. 
 
 The duchess shook hands with each boy. " Your 
 father and I are old friends," she said to Egerton; 
 *' and I have had the pleasure of meeting your uncle," 
 she smiled at John. 
 
 Duff looked unhappy and. ill at ease, because it 
 was almost certain that his last sentence had been 
 overheard by the house-master. The duchess asked 
 a few questions and then took her leave. She and her 
 son were dining with the Head Master. Rutford 
 accompanied her. 
 
 " Did the blighter hear? " said Duff. 
 
 " How could he help it with his enormous asses' 
 ears? " said the tall thin Egerton. 
 
 Duff, an optimist, like all red-headed, freckled 
 boys, appealed to the others, each in turn. The ver- 
 dict was unanimous. 
 
 " He hates me like poison," said Duff. " I shall 
 catch it hot. What an unlucky beggar I am 1 " 
 
 "Pooh!" said Scaife. "He knows jolly well 
 that the whole school calls him Dirty Dick." 
 
 But whatever hopes Duff may have entertained 
 of his house-master's deafness were speedily laid in 
 the dust. Within five minutes Rutford reappeared. 
 He stood in the doorway, glaring. 
 
THE MANOR 21I 
 
 " Just now, Duff," said he, " I happened to over- 
 hear your voice, which is singularly, I may say vul- 
 garly, penetrating. You were speaking of me, your 
 house-master, as ' Dick.' But you used an adjective 
 before it. What was it? " 
 
 Duff writhed. " I don't — remember." 
 
 " Oh yes, you do. Why lie, Duff? " 
 
 John's brown face grew pale. 
 
 " The adjective you used," continued Rutford, 
 " was ' dirty.' You spoke of me as ' Dirty Dick,' 
 and I fancy I caught the word ' beast.' You will 
 write out, if you please, one hundred Greek lines, 
 accents and stops, and bring them to me, or leave 
 them with Dumbleton, twenty-five lines at a 
 time, every alternate half hour during the after- 
 noon of the next half holiday. Good night to 
 you." 
 
 " Good night, sir," said all the boys, save John 
 and Scaife. 
 
 " Good night, Verney." 
 
 Master and pupil confronted each other. John's 
 face looked impassive ; and Rutford turned from the 
 new boy to Scaife. 
 
 " Good night, Scaife." 
 
 Scaife drew himself up, and, in a quiet, cool voice, 
 replied — 
 
 " Good night, sir." 
 
 Duff waited till Rutford's heavy step was no longer 
 heard; then he rushed at John. 
 
 " I say," he spluttered, " you're a good sort — ain't 
 he, Demon ? Refusing to say ' Good night ' to the 
 
22 THE HILL 
 
 beast because he was ragging me. But he'll never 
 forgive you — never! " 
 
 "Oh yes, he will," said Scaife. "It won't be 
 difficult for Dirty Dick to forgive the future Verney 
 of Verney Boscobel." 
 
 John stared.. "Verney Boscobel?" he repeated. 
 " Why, that belongs to my uncle. Mother and I 
 hope he'll marry and have a lot of jolly kids of his 
 own." 
 
 " You hope he'll marry? Well, I'm " 
 
 John's jaw stuck out. The emphasis on the 
 " hope " and the upraised eyebrow smote hard. 
 
 " You don't mean to say," he began hotly, " you 
 don't think that " 
 
 " I can think what I please," said Scaife, curtly; 
 " and so can you." He laughed derisively. " Think- 
 ing what they please is about the only liberty allowed 
 to new boys. Even the Duffer learned to hold his 
 tongue during his first term." 
 
 The Caterpillar — the tall, thin, aristocratic boy — 
 spoke solemnly. He was a dandy, the understudy — 
 as John soon discovered — of one of the " Bloods " ; 
 a " Junior Blood," or " Would-be," a tremendous 
 authority on " swagger," a stickler for tradition, who 
 had been nearly three years in the school. 
 
 " The Demon is right," said he. " A new boy 
 can't be too careful, Verney. Your being funny in 
 hall just now made a dev'lish bad impression." 
 
 " But I didn't mean to be funny. I told Law- 
 rence so directly after call-over." 
 
 The Caterpillar pulled down his cuffs. 
 
THE MANOR 23 
 
 " If you didn't mean to be funny," he concluded, 
 " you must be an ass." 
 
 Duff, however, remembered that John was nephew 
 to an explorer. 
 
 " I say," he jogged John's elbow, " do you think 
 you could get me your uncle's autograph? " 
 
 " Why, of course," said John. 
 
 " Thanks. I've not a bad collection," the Duffer 
 murmured modestly. 
 
 " And the gem of it," said Scaife, " is Billington's, 
 the hangman! The Duffer shivers whenever he 
 looks at it." 
 
 " Yes, I do," said Duff, grinning horribly. 
 
 After supper and Prayers, John went to bed, but 
 not to sleep for at least an hour. He lay awake, 
 thinking over the events of this memorable day. 
 Whenever he closed his eyes he beheld two objects: 
 the spire of Harrow Church and the vivid laughing 
 face of Desmond. He told himself that he liked 
 Desmond most awfully. And Scaife too, the Demon, 
 had been kind. But somehow John did not like 
 Scaife. He seemed, somehow, a bit of a cad, jawing 
 away about dukes and family. Then, in a curious 
 half-dreamy condition, not yet asleep and assuredly 
 not quite awake, he seemed to see the figure of Scaife 
 expanding, assuming terrific proportions. Impending 
 over Desmond, standing between him and the spire, 
 obscuring part of the spire at first, and then, bit by 
 bit, overshadowing the whole. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 C^SAR 
 
 " Vou come here where your brothers came, 
 To the old school years ago, 
 A young new face, and a Harrow name, 
 
 'Mid a crowd of strangers? No I 
 You may not fancy yourself alone, 
 
 You who are memory's heir. 
 When even the names in the graven stone 
 Will greet you with 'Who goes there — 
 You?— 
 Pass, Friend— All's well.'" 
 
 John never forgot that memorable morning when he 
 learned for the first time what place he had taken 
 in the school. He sat with the other new-comers, 
 staring, open-eyed, at nearly six hundred boys, big 
 and small, assembled together in the Speech-room. 
 So engrossed was he that he scarcely heard the Head 
 Master's opening prayers. John was obsessed, in- 
 ebriated, with the number of Harrovians, each of 
 whom had once felt strange and shy like himself. 
 From his place close to the great organ, he could 
 look up and up, seeing row after row of faces, know- 
 ing that amongst them sat his future friends and 
 foes. 
 
 Suddenly, a neighbour nudged him. The Head 
 24 
 
C^SAR 25 
 
 Master was reading from a list in his hand the school- 
 removes, and the names and places taken by new 
 boys. He began at the lowest form with the name 
 of a small urchin sitting near John. The urchin 
 blinked and blushed as he realized that he was " lag 
 of the -school." John knew that he had answered 
 fairly well the questions set by the examiners ; he had 
 no fear of finding himself pilloried in the Third 
 Fourth ; still, as form after form did not include his 
 name, he grew restless and excited. Had he taken a 
 higher place than the middle Shell ? Yes ; no Verney 
 in the middle Shell. The Head Master began the 
 removes of the top Shell. Now, now it must be 
 coming. No; the clear penetrating tones slowly 
 articulated name after name, but not his. 
 
 " Verney." 
 
 At last. Many eyes were staring at him, some 
 enviously, a few superciliously. John had taken the 
 Lower Remove, the highest form but one open to 
 new boys. He was sipping the wine called Success. 
 
 Moreover, Desmond of the frank, laughing face 
 and sparkling blue eyes, and Scaife and Egerton were 
 also in the Lower Remove. 
 
 After this, John sat in a blissful dream, hardly 
 conscious of his surroundings, seeing his mother's 
 face, hearing her sigh of pleasure when she learned 
 that already her son was halfway up the school. 
 
 You may be sure those first forty-eight hours were 
 brim-full of excitement. First, John bought his 
 books, stout leather-tipped, leather-backed volumes. 
 
26 THE HILL 
 
 on which his name will be duly stamped on fly-leaf 
 and across the edges of the pages. And he bought 
 also, from " Judy " Stephens/ a " squash " racquet, 
 " squash " balls, and a yard ball. From the school 
 Custos — " Titchy " — a noble supply of stationery 
 was procured. Moreover, young Kinloch announced 
 that his mother had given him three pounds to spend 
 upon the decoration of No. 15, so Scaife declared 
 his intention of spending a similar sum, and in conse- 
 quence No. 15 became a gorgeous apartment, the 
 cynosure of every eye that passed. The characters 
 of the three boys were revealed plainly enough by 
 their simple furnishings. Scaife bought sporting 
 prints, a couple of Detaille's lithographs, and an 
 easy-chair, known to dwellers upon the Hill as a 
 " frowst " ; Kinloch hung upon his side of the wall 
 four pretty reproductions of French engravings, and 
 with the help of three yards of velveteen and some 
 cheap lace he made a very passable imitation of the 
 mantel-cover in his mother's London boudoir; John 
 scorned velveteen, lace, " frowsts," and French en- 
 gravings. He put his money into a pair of red cur- 
 tains, and one excellent photogravure of Landseer's 
 " Children of the Mist." Having a few shillings to 
 spare, he bought half a dozen ferns, which were 
 placed in a box by the window, and watered so dili- 
 gently that they died prematurely. 
 
 Secondly, John played in a house-game at football, 
 and learned the difference between a scrimmage at 
 a small preparatory school and the genuine thing 
 
 1 The racquet Professional. 
 
CiESAR 27 
 
 at Harrow. Lawrence insisted that all new boys 
 should play, and the Caterpillar informed him that 
 he would have to learn the rules of Harrow 
 " footer " by heart, and pass a stiff examination In 
 them before the House Eleven, with the penalty of 
 being forced to sing them in Hall if he failed to 
 satisfy his examiners. The Duffer lent him a House- 
 shirt of green and white stripes, and a pair of white 
 duck shorts, and with what pride John put them on, 
 thinking of the far distant day when he would wear 
 a " fez " ^ instead of the commonplace house-cap. 
 Lawrence said a few words. 
 
 " You'll have to play the compulsory games, Ver- 
 ney, which begin after the Goose Match,^ but I want 
 to see you playing as hard as ever you can in the 
 house-games. You'll be knocked about a bit; but a 
 Verney won't mind that — eh? " 
 
 " Rather not," said John, feeling very valiant. 
 
 Thirdly, there was the first Sunday, and the first 
 sermon of the Head Master, with its plain teaching 
 about the opportunities and perils of Public School 
 life. John found himself mightily affected by the 
 singing, and the absence of shrill treble voices. The 
 booming basses and baritones of the big fellows made 
 him shiver with a curious bitter-sweet sensation never 
 experienced before. 
 
 Lastly, the pleasant discovery that his Form 
 treated him with courtesy and kindness. Desmond, 
 
 1 The cap of honour worn by the House Football Eleven. 
 
 2 The Goose Match, the last cricket-match of the year, play«d 
 on the nearest Saturday to Michaelmas Day. 
 
28 THE HILL 
 
 in particular, welcomed him quite warmly. And 
 then and there John's heart was filled with a wild 
 and unreasonable yearning for this boy's friendship. 
 But Desmond — he was called " Csesar," because his 
 Christian names were Henry Julius — seemed to be 
 very popular, a bright particular star, far beyond 
 John's reach although for ever in his sight. Caesar 
 never offered to walk with him: and he refused 
 John's timid invitation to have food at the " Tudor 
 Creameries." ^ Was it possible that a boy about 
 to enter Damer's would not be seen walking and 
 talking with a fellow out of Dirty Dick's? This 
 possibility festered, till one morning John saw his 
 idol walking up and down the School Yard with 
 Scaife. That evening he said to Scaife — 
 
 " Do you like Desmond? " 
 
 " Yes," Scaife replied decisively. " I like him 
 better than any fellow at Harrow. You know that 
 his father is Charles Desmond — the Cabinet Min- 
 ister and a Governor of the school? " 
 
 " I didn't know it. I suppose Cassar Desmond 
 likes you — awfully." 
 
 "Do you? I doubt it." 
 
 No more was said. John told himself that Cassar 
 — he liked to think of. Desmond as Caesar — could 
 pick and choose a pal out of at least three hundred 
 boys, half the school. How extremely unlikely that 
 he, John, would be chosen ! But every night he lay 
 awake for half an hour longer than he ought to have 
 done, wondering how, by hook or crook, he could 
 
 1 A fashionable " tuck ''-shop. 
 
C^SAR 29 
 
 do a service to Caesar which must challenge interest 
 and provoke, ultimately, friendship. 
 
 Meantime, he was slowly initiated by the Cater- 
 pillar — so called, because he had crawled up the 
 school — into Harrow ways and customs. Fagging, 
 which began after the first fortnight, he found a 
 not unpleasant duty. After first and fourth schools 
 the other fags and he would stand not far from the 
 pantry, and yell out " Breakfast," or " Tea," as it 
 might be, " for Number So-and-So." Perhaps one 
 had to nip up to the Creameries to get a slice of 
 salmon, or cutlets, or sausages. Fagging at Harrow 
 ' — which varies slightly in different houses — is hard 
 or easy according to the taste and fancy of the fag's 
 master. Some of the Sixth Form at the Manor made 
 their fags unlace their dirty football-boots. Kinloch, 
 who since he left the nursery had been waited upon 
 by powdered footmen six feet high, now found, to 
 his disgust, that he had to varnish Trieve's patent- 
 leathers for Sunday. Trieve was second in command, 
 and had been known as " Miss " Trieve. John 
 would have gladly done this and more for Lawrence, 
 his fag-master; but Lawrence, a manly youth, scorned 
 sybaritic services. The Caterpillar taught John to 
 carry his umbrella unfolded, to wear his " straw " 
 straight (a slight list to port was allowed to 
 " Bloods " only) , not to walk in the middle of the 
 road, and so forth. How he used to envy the mem- 
 bers of the Elevens as they rolled arm-in-arm down 
 the High Street. How often he wondered if the 
 day would ever dawn when Caesar and he, outwardly 
 
30 THE HILL 
 
 and inwardly linked together, would stroll up and 
 down the middle-walk below the Chapel Terrace: 
 that sunny walk, whence, on a fair day, you can see 
 the insatiable monster, London, filling the horizon, 
 and stretching red, reeking hands into the sweet 
 country — the middle-walk, from which all but 
 Bloods were rigidly excluded. 
 
 Much to his annoyance — ^an annoyance, be it said, 
 which he managed to hide — ^John seemed to attract 
 young JKinloch almost as magnetically as he him- 
 self was attracted to Caesar. John had not the heart 
 to shake off the frail delicate child, who was chris- 
 tened " Fluff " after his first appearance in public. 
 Fluff had taken the First Fourth and ingenuously 
 confessed to any one who cared to listen that he 
 ought to have gone to Eton. A beast of a doctor 
 prescribed the Hill. And even the almighty duke 
 failed to get him into Damer's, another grievance. 
 He had been entered since birth at the crack house 
 at Eton ; and now to be pitchforked into Dirty Dick's 
 
 at Harrow ! The Duffer kicked him, feeling 
 
 an unspeakable cad when poor Fluff burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Sorry," said the Duffer. " Only you mustn't 
 slang Harrow. And you'd better get it into your 
 silly head that It's the best school in this or any 
 other world — isn't it. Demon? " 
 
 " I'm sure the Verneys, and the Egertons, and the 
 Duffs have always thought so." 
 
 " But it isn't really," whimpered poor Fluff. 
 " You fellows know that everybody talks of Eton 
 
CiESAR 31 
 
 and Harrow. Who ever heard of Harrow and 
 Eton? One says — I've heard my eldest brother, 
 Strathpeffer, say it again and again — ' Eton and Har- 
 row,' just as one says ' Gentlemen and Players.' " 
 
 " Oh," said the Caterpillar. " The Etonians are 
 the gentlemen — hay? Well, Fluff, after their per- 
 formance at Lord's last year, you couldn't expect us 
 to admit that they're — players." 
 
 The Duffer chuckled. 
 
 " I say, Caterpillar, that was a good 'un." 
 
 " Not mine," said the Caterpillar, solemnly. " My 
 governor's, you know." 
 
 The Duffer continued: "Now, Fluff, I won't 
 touch your body, because you might tumble to pieces, 
 but if I hear you slanging the school or our house, 
 I'll pull out handfuls of fluff. D'ye hear? " 
 
 " Yes," said Fluff, meekly. 
 
 "Say ' Flore at Herga' on your bended knees 1 " 
 
 Fluff obeyed. 
 
 " And remember," said the Duffer, impressively, 
 " that we've had a king here, haven't we. Cater- 
 pillar? " 
 
 " Yes," said the Caterpillar. 
 
 " I never believed it," said Scaife. 
 
 " He was a Spaniard,* or an Italian, you know," 
 the Duffer explained. " The duke of something or 
 t'other; and an ambassador came down and offered 
 the beggar the Spanish crown, when he was in the 
 
 1 H.R.H. Prince Thomas of Savoy, Duke of Genoa, was elected 
 King by the Cortes of Spain, October 3, 1869, while he was a 
 boy at Harrow. The crown was finally declined January i, 1870. 
 The Prince was nick-named "King Tom." 
 
32 THE HILL 
 
 First Fourth, and of course he gobbled it — ^who 
 ■wouldn't? And then Victor Emmanuel interfered. 
 That's all true, you can take your Bible oath, because 
 my governor told me so, and he — ^well, he's a 
 parson." 
 
 " Then- it must be true," said Scaife. " Now, 
 young Fluff, don't forget that Harrow is a school 
 fit for a king and nearer to Heaven than Eton by at 
 least six hundred feet." 
 
 So saying, the Demon marched out of the room, 
 followed by Fluff, slightly limping. 
 
 " Sorry I turfed ^ that little ass so hard," said the 
 Duffer to John. " I say, Verney, the Demon is 
 rather a rum 'un, ain't he? Sometimes I can't quite 
 make him out. He's frightfully clever and all that, 
 but I had a sort of beastly feeling just now that he 
 didn't — eh ? — quite mean what he said. Was he 
 laughin' at us, puUin' our legs — ^what? " 
 
 John's brain worked slowly, as he had found out 
 to his cost under a form-master who maintained that 
 it was no use having a fact stored in the head unless 
 it slipped readily out of the mouth. The Duffer, 
 who never thought, because speaking was so much 
 easier, grew impatient at John's silence. 
 
 " Well, you needn't look like an owl, Verney. 
 Let's go and have some food at the Creameries." 
 
 Looking back afterwards, John often wondered 
 whether, unconsciously, the Duffer had sown a grain 
 of mustard-seed destined to grow into a large tree. 
 
 1 To " turf," i.e. to kick. 
 
G^SAR 33 
 
 Or, had the intuition that Scaife was other than what 
 he seemed furnished the fertile soil into which the 
 seed fell? In any case, from the end of this first 
 week began to increase the suspicion, which event- 
 ually became conviction, that the Demon, keen at 
 games, popular in his house, clever at work — clever, 
 indeed! inasmuch as he never achieved more or less 
 than was necessary — generous with his money, hand- 
 some and well-mannered, blessed, in fine, with so 
 many gifts of the gods, yet lacked — a soul. 
 
 This, of course, is putting into words the vague 
 speculations and reasonings of a boy not yet fourteen. 
 If an Olympian — one of the masters, for instance, 
 or the Head of the House^ — had said, " Verney, has 
 the Demon a soul?" John would have answered 
 promptly, " Ra — ther! He's been awfully decent 
 to Fluff and me. We'd have had a hot time If it 
 hadn't been for him," and so forth. . . . And, 
 indeed, to doubt Scaife's sincerity and goodness 
 seemed at times gross disloyalty, because he stood, 
 firm as a rock, between the two urchins in his room 
 and the turbulent crowd outside. This defence of 
 the weak, this guarding of green fruit from the maw 
 of Lower School boys, afforded Scaife an opportunity 
 of exercising power. He had the instincts of the 
 potter, inherited, no doubt; and he moulded the clay 
 ready to his hand with the delight of a master-work- 
 man. Nobody else knew what the great contractor 
 had said to his boy when he despatched him to Har- 
 row; but the Demon remembered every word. He 
 had reason to respect and fear his sire. 
 
34 THE'.HILL 
 
 'A 
 
 " I'm sending you to Harrow to study, not books 
 nor games, but boys, who will be men when you are 
 a man. And, above all, study their weaknesses. 
 Look for the flaws. Teach yourself to recognize at 
 a glance the liar, the humbug, the fool, the egotist, 
 and the mule. Make friends with as many as are 
 likely to help you in after life, and don't forget that 
 one enemy may inflict a greater injury than twenty 
 friends can repair. Spend money freely; dress well; 
 swim with the tide, not against it." 
 
 A year at Harrow confirmed Scaife's confidence 
 in his father's worldly wisdom. Big for his age, 
 strong, with the muscles of a grandsire who began 
 life as a navvy, tough as hickory, he had become 
 the leader of the Lower School boys at the Manor. 
 The Fifth were civil to him, recognizing, perhaps, 
 the expediency of leaving him alone ever since the 
 incident of the cricket stump. The Sixth found him 
 the quickest of the fags and uncommonly obliging. 
 His house-master signed reports which neither 
 praised nor blamed. To Dirty Dick the boy was 
 the son of a man who could write a cheque for a 
 million. 
 
 Two things worthy of record happened within a 
 month ; the one of lesser Importance can be set down 
 first. Charles Desmond, Caesar's father, came down 
 to Harrow and gave a luncheon at the King's Head. 
 From time Immemorial the Desmonds had been 
 educated on the Hill. The family had produced 
 some famous soldiers, a Lord Chancellor, and a 
 
C^SAR 35 
 
 Prime Minister. In the Fourth Form Room the 
 stranger may read their names carved in oak, and 
 they are carved also in the hearts of all ardent Har- 
 rovians. Mr. Desmond, though a Cabinet Minister, 
 found time to visit Harrow once at least in each 
 term. He always chose a whole holiday, and after 
 attending eleven o'clock Bill * in the Yard, would 
 carry off his son and his son's friends. The School 
 knew him and loved him. To the thoughtful he 
 stood for the illustrious past, the epitome of what 
 John Lyon's ^ boys had fought for and accomplished. 
 Four sons had he — Harrovians all. Of these Cssar 
 was youngest and last. Each had distinguished 
 himself on the Hill either in work or play, or in 
 both. 
 
 Charles Desmond stood upon the step just above 
 the master who was calling Bill. 
 
 " That's Caesar's father," said Scaife. " I'm go- 
 ing to lunch with him. Isn't he a topper? " 
 
 John's eyes were popping out of his face. He 
 had never seen any man like this resplend*ent, stately 
 personage, smiling and nodding to the biggest fellows 
 in the school. 
 
 " And my governor says," Scaife added, " that 
 he's not a rich man, nothing much to speak of in the 
 way of income over and above his screw as a Cabinet 
 Minister." 
 
 Scaife moved away, and John could hear him say 
 to another boy, in an easy, friendly tone, " Mr. Des- 
 
 1 Calling over. 
 
 2 John Lyon founded Harrow School, 1571. 
 
36 THE HILL 
 
 mond told Cassar that he wanted to meet me — very 
 civil of him — eh? " 
 
 Presently John was in the line waiting to pass by 
 the steps. 
 
 "Verney?" 
 
 " Here, sir." 
 
 He was hurrying by, with a backward glance at 
 the great man. Suddenly Cssar's father beckoned, 
 nodding cheerily. John ascendefd the steps, to feel 
 the grasp of a strong hand, to hear a ringing 
 voice. 
 
 " You're John Verney's nephew. Just so. I think 
 I should have spotted you, even if Harry had not 
 told me you were in his form. You must lunch with 
 us. Cut along, now." 
 
 So John was dismissed, brimful of happiness, 
 which almost overflowed when Cssar met him with 
 an eager — 
 
 " I'm so glad, Verney. I say, the governor's a 
 nailer at picking out the old names, isn't he? " 
 
 So John ate his luncheon in distinguished com- 
 pany, and felt himself for the first time to be some- 
 body. As the youngest guest present, to him was 
 accorded the place of honour, next the most charming 
 host in Christendom, who put him at ease in a jiffy. 
 How good the cutlets and the pheasant tasted. And 
 how the talk warmed the cockles of his heart. The 
 brand of the Crossed Arrows shone upon all topics. 
 Who could expect, or desire, aught else? Caesar's 
 governor seemed to know what every Harrovian had 
 done worth the doing. Easily, fluently, he discoursed 
 
CiESAR 37 
 
 of triumphs won at home, abroad, in the camp, on 
 the hustings, at the bar, in the pulpit. And his 
 anecdotes, which illustrated every phase of life, how 
 pat to the moment they were. One boy complained 
 ruefully of having spent three terms under a form- 
 master who had " ragged " him. Charles Desmond 
 sympathized — 
 
 " Bless my soul," said he, *' don't I remember 
 being three terms in the Third Fifth when that tartar 
 old Heriot had it. I dare swear I got no more than 
 my deserts. I was an idle vagabond, but Heriot 
 made my life such a burden to me that I entreated 
 my people to take me away from Harrow. And then 
 my governor urged me to put my back into the work 
 and get a remove. And I did. And would you 
 believe it, upon the first day of the next term I wired 
 to my people, ' You must take me away. I've got 
 my remove all right — and so has Heriot.' " 
 
 How gaily the speaker led the laugh which fol- 
 lowed this recital ! And the chaff I Was it possible 
 that Caesar dared to chaff a man who was supposed 
 to have the peace of Europe in his keeping? And, 
 by Jove ! Cassar could hold his own. 
 
 So the minutes flew. But John noticed, with sur- 
 prise, that the Demon didn't score. In fact, John 
 and he were the only guests who contributed nothing 
 to the feast save hearty appetites. It was strange 
 that the Demon, the wit of his house and form, 
 never opened his mouth except to fill it with food. 
 He answered, it is true, and very modestly, the ques- 
 tions addressed to him by his host; but then, as John 
 
38 THE HILL 
 
 reflected, any silly fool In the Fourth Form could do 
 that. 
 
 After luncheon, the boys were dismissed, each with 
 a hearty word of encouragement and half a sov- 
 ereign. John was passing the plate-glass splendours 
 of the Creameries, when the Demon overtook him, 
 and they walked down the winding High Street 
 together. Scaife had never walked with John 
 before. 
 
 "That was worth while," Scaife said quitely. 
 John could not interpret this speech, save in its 
 obvious meaning. 
 
 " Rather," he replied. 
 
 " Why? " said Scaife, very sharply. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Why was it worth while? " 
 
 John stammered out something about good food 
 and jolly talk. 
 
 " Pooh! " said Scaife, contemptuously. " I thought 
 you had brains, Verney." He glanced at him keenly. 
 "Now, speak out. What's in that head of yours? 
 You can be cheeky, if you like." 
 
 John wondered how Scaife had divined that he 
 wished to be cheeky. His mentor had said so much 
 to Fluff and him about the propriety of not putting 
 on " lift " or " side " in the presence of an older boy, 
 that he had choked back a retort which occurred to 
 him. 
 
 " You're thinking," continued the Demon, In his 
 clear voice, " that I didn't use my brains just now, 
 but, my blooming innocent, I can assure you I did. 
 
CiESAR 39 
 
 Very much so. I played 'possum. Put that into 
 your little pipe and smoke it." 
 
 At four o'clock Bill, John noticed Caesar's absence ; 
 a fact accounted for by the presence of a mail-phae- 
 ton, which, he knew, belonged to Mr. Desmond, 
 drawn up — oddly enough — opposite the Manor. 
 What a joke to think that Caesar was drinking tea 
 with Dirty Dick! 
 
 After Bill, having nothing better to do, John and 
 Fluff went for a walk on the Sudbury road. They 
 had played football before Bill, and each had 
 realized his own awkwardness and insignificance. 
 Poor Fluff, almost reduced to tears, with a big black 
 bruise upon his white forehead, confessed that he 
 preferred peaceful games, like croquet, and intend- 
 ed to apply for a doctor's certificate of exemption. 
 Demanding sympathy, he received a slating. 
 
 " I play nearly as rotten a game as you do. Fluff," 
 John said; "but Scaife expects us to be Torpids,^ 
 so we jolly well have to buck up. That bruise over 
 your eye has taken off your painted-doll look. Now, 
 if you're going to blub, you'd better get behind that 
 hedge." 
 
 Fluff exploded. 
 
 " This is a beastly hole," he cried. " And I loathe 
 It. I'm going to write to my father and beg him 
 to take me away." 
 
 " You ought to be at a girls' school." 
 
 1 Boys who have not been more than two years in the school 
 are eligible as " Torpids " ; out of each house a Torpid foobali 
 Eleven is chosen. 
 
40 THE HILL 
 
 " I hate everything and everybody. I thought you 
 were my friend, the only friend I had." 
 
 John was somewhat mollified. 
 
 " I am your friend, but not when you talk rot." 
 
 " Verney, look here, if you'll be decent to me, I 
 will try to stick it out. I wish I was like you; I do 
 indeed. I wish I was like Scaife. Why, I'd sooner 
 be the Duffer, freckles and all, than myself." 
 
 John looked down upon the delicately-tinted face, 
 the small, regular, girlis'h features, the red, quiver- 
 ing mouth. Suddenly he grasped that this was an 
 appeal from weakness to strength, and that he, no 
 older and but a little bigger than Fluff, had strength 
 to spare, strength to shoulder burdens other than his 
 own. 
 
 "All right," he said stiffly; " don't make such a 
 fuss." 
 
 " You'll have me for a friend, Verney? " 
 
 " Yes; but I ain't going to kiss your forehead to 
 make it well, you know." 
 
 " May I call you John, when we're alone? And 
 I wish you'd call me Esme, instead of that horrid 
 • Fluff.' " 
 
 John pondered deeply. 
 
 " Look here," he said. " You can call me John, 
 and I'll call you Esme, when we're Torpids. And 
 now, you'd better cut back to the house. I must 
 think this all out, and I can't think straight when I 
 look at you." 
 
 "May I call you John once? " 
 You are the silliest idiot I ever met, bar none. 
 
 i( 
 
CiESAR 41 
 
 Call me 'John,' or 'Tom Fool,' or anything; but 
 hook it afterwards ! " 
 
 " Yes, John, I will. You're the only boy I ever 
 met whom I really wanted for a friend." He dis- 
 played a radiant face, turned suddenly, and ran off. 
 John watched him, frowning, because Fluff was a 
 good little chap, and yet, at times, such a bore. 
 
 He walked on alone, chewing the cud of a delight- 
 ful experience; trying, not unsuccessfully, to recall 
 some of Mr. Desmond's anecdotes. How proud 
 Cssar was of his father. And the father, obviously, 
 was just as proud of his son. What a pair! And if 
 only Cjesar were his friend ! By Jove 1 It was rather 
 a rum go, but John was as mad keen to call Caesar 
 friend as poor Fluff to call John friend. Serious 
 food for thought, this. " But I would never 
 bother him," said John to himself, " as Fluff has 
 bothered me, never I " 
 
 "Hullo, Verneyl" 
 
 " Hullo ! " said John. 
 
 Coincidence had thrust Cssar out of his thoughts 
 and on to the narrow path in front of him. 
 
 " I'm not a ghost," said Caesar. 
 
 John hesitated. 
 
 "I was thinking of you," he confessed; "and 
 then I heard your voice and saw you. It gave me a 
 start. I say, it was good of your governor to ask 
 
 me. 
 
 " Hang my governor ! He's the " 
 
 Caesar closed his lips firmly, as if he feared that 
 terrible adjectives might burst from them. John 
 
42 THE HILE 
 
 missed the sparkling smile, the gay glance of the 
 eyes. 
 
 " What's up? " he demanded. 
 
 CiBsar hesitated; looked at John, read, perhaps, 
 the sympathy, the honest interest, possibly the 
 affection, in the grey orbs which met his own so 
 steadily. 
 
 •' What's up? " he repeated. " Why, I'm not go- 
 ing into Darner's, after all." 
 
 "Oh I "said John. 
 
 " My governor has just told me. I came down 
 here to curse and swear." 
 
 " Not going into Darner's? What rot — for 
 you!" 
 
 " It is sickening. Look here, Verney; I feel like 
 telling you about it. I know you won't go bleating 
 all over the shop. No. I said to myself, * Mum's 
 the word,' but " 
 
 John's heart beat, his body glowed, his grey eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 " It's like this," continued Cassar, after a slight 
 pause. " Damer told the governor that two fellows 
 he had expected to leave at the end of this term 
 were staying on. The governor hinted that Damer 
 added something about straining a point, and let- 
 ting me in ahead of three other fellows; but the 
 governor wouldn't listen to that " 
 
 " Jolly decent of him," said John. 
 
 " Was It? In my opinion he ought to have 
 thought of me first. All my brothers have been at 
 Darner's, And he knew I'd set my heart on going 
 
C^SAR 43 
 
 there. Look how civil the fellows are to me. I've 
 been in and out of the house like a tame cat. Con- 
 found it ! if Damer did want to strain a point, why 
 shouldn't he? The governor played his own game, 
 not mine. What right has he to be so precious un- 
 selfish at my expense? I argued with him; but he 
 can put his foot down. Let's cut all that. Of course, 
 I don't want to stop in a beastly Small House for 
 ever, and, if Damer's is closed to me, I should like 
 Brown's, but Brown's is full too. And there are 
 other good houses. But where — where do you think 
 I am going? " 
 
 "Reed's?" 
 
 " I don't call Reed's so bad. No ; I'm going to 
 Dirty Dick's. I'm coming to you." 
 
 " Oh, I say." 
 
 " Why, dash it all, you're grinning. I don't want 
 to be a cad — Dirty Dick's is your house — but — after 
 Damer's! OLord!" 
 
 The grin faded out of John's face. Caesar's loss 
 outweighed his own gain. 
 
 " Your governor was a Manorite," he said 
 slowly. 
 
 "Yes, in Its best days; and he's always had a 
 sneaking liking for it; but he knows, he knows, I 
 say, that now it's rotten, and yet he sends me there. 
 Why? " 
 
 " Ask another," said John. 
 
 " I asked him another, and what do you think 
 he said, in that peculiar voice of his which always 
 dries me up ? ' Harry,' said he, ' when you're a 
 
44 THE HILL 
 
 little older and a good deal wiser, you'll be able 
 to answer that question yourself.' " 
 
 Johh's face brightened. A glimmering of the 
 truth shone out of the darkness. He tried to advance 
 nearer to it, gropingly. 
 
 " I dare say " 
 
 "Well, goonl" 
 
 " Your governor may feel that we want a fellow 
 like you." 
 
 John was blushing because he remembered what 
 the Head of the house had said about the Verneys. 
 Desmond glanced at him keenly. He detested flat- 
 tery laid on too thick. But this was a genuine 
 tribute. For the first time he smiled. 
 
 " Thank you, Verney," he said, more genially. 
 " What you say is utter rot; but it was decent of you 
 to say it, and I'm glad that you and I are going 
 to be in the same house." 
 
 For his life John could not help adding, " And 
 Scaife, you forget Scaife?" Jealousy pierced him 
 as Scaife's name slipped out. 
 
 "Yes, there's the Demon. I always liked 
 him." 
 
 " And he likes you." 
 
 " Does he? Good old Demon ! I like to be liked. 
 That's the Irish in me. I'm half Irish, you know. 
 I want fellows to be friendly to me. I'd forgotten 
 Scaife. That's rum too, because he!s not the sort 
 one forgets, is he? No. I wonder if I could get 
 into the Demon's room next term? " 
 
 " I'm in his room. It's a three-room." 
 
CiESAR 45 
 
 " A two-room is much jollier." 
 
 *' Our room is not bad." 
 
 Caesar was hardly listening. John caught a mur- 
 mur: "The old Demon and I would get along 
 capitally." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 KRAIPALE ^ 
 
 "Life is mostly froth and bubble; 
 Two things stand like stone — 
 Kindness in another's trouble, 
 Courage in your own." 
 
 Some five years afterwards John Verney learned 
 what had passed between Cabinet Minister and Head 
 Master upon that eventful day which sent Caesar 
 to curse and swear upon the Sudbury road. The 
 Head Master was not an Harrovian, and on that 
 account was the better able to perceive time-honoured 
 abuses. At Harrow the dominant chord among mas- 
 ters and boys Is a harmony of strenuousness and 
 sentiment. Inevitably, the sentiment becomes, at 
 times, sentimental; and then strenuousness pushes it 
 Into a corner. When honoured veterans are wearing 
 out, loyalty, gratitude for past service, reluctance to 
 inflict pain, keep them in positions of responsibility 
 which mentally and physically they are unfit to 
 administer. It is almost as difficult to turn an Eton 
 or Harrow master out of his house, as to turn a 
 parson of the Church of England out of his pulpit. 
 More, in selecting a house-master as in selecting a 
 parson, a man's claims to preferment are too often 
 
 ^ xpainAXrj is translated by Liddell and Scott as " the result of 
 a debauch." 
 
 46 
 
KRAI PALE . 47 
 
 determined by scholarship, by length of former serv- 
 ice, by interest with authority, rather than by ability 
 to govern a body of boys made up of widely different 
 parts. A capable form-master may prove an in- 
 capable house-master. Richard Rutford, to give a 
 concrete example, came to Harrow knowing nothing 
 about Public Schools, and caring as little for the 
 traditions of the Hill, but with the prestige of being 
 a Senior Classic. Nobody questioned his ability to 
 teach Greek. In his own line, and not an Inch be- 
 yond, the Governors were assured that Rutford was 
 a success. In due time he accepted a Small House, 
 so small that Its autocrat's incapacity as an adminis- 
 trator escaped notice. Rutford waited patiently for 
 a big morsel. He wrote a couple of text-books; he 
 married a wife with money and influence; he enter- 
 tained handsomely. It Is true he became popular 
 neither with masters nor boys, but his wine was as 
 sound as his scholarship, and his wife had a peer 
 for" a cousin. Eventually he accepted the Manor. 
 Within a month, those in authority suspected that 
 a blunder had been made; within a year they knew 
 it. The house began to go down. Leaven lay In the 
 lump, but not enough to make It rise, because the 
 baker refused to stir the dough. First and last, Rut- 
 ford disliked boys, misunderstood them, insulted 
 them, ignored those who lacked Influential connec- 
 tions, toadied and pampered the " swells." 
 
 Just before John Verney came to Harrow, the 
 Manor was showing unmistakable signs of decay. 
 A new Head Master, recognizing " dry-rot," realiz- 
 
48 THE HILL 
 
 ing the necessity of cutting it out, was confronted 
 with that bristling obstacle — ^Tradition. He pos- 
 sessed enough moral courage to have told Rutford 
 to resign, because in a thousand indescribable ways the 
 man had neglected his duty; but, so said the Tories, 
 such a step might provoke a public scandal, and 
 if Rutford refused to go — what then? Nothing 
 definite could be proved against the man. His sins 
 had been of omission. Dismayed, not defeated, the 
 Head Master considered other methods of regen- 
 erating the Manor. Very quietly he made his appeal 
 to the Old Harrovians, many of whom were sending 
 their sons and nephews to other houses. He invited 
 co-operation. John Verney, the Rev. Septimus Duff, 
 Colonel Egerton — half a dozen enthusiastic Manor- 
 ites — stepped forward. Lastly, for Charles Des- 
 mond the Head Master baited his hook. 
 
 " The reform which we have at heart," said he, 
 " must come from within and from below. The 
 house wants a Desmond in it. I was not allowed to 
 wield the axe; but, after all, there are more modern 
 methods of decapitation. And, believe me, I am 
 not asking any man more than I am prepared to do 
 myself. My own nephew goes to the Manor after 
 next holidays." 
 
 " Um ! " said Mr. Desmond, stroking his chin. 
 
 " Lawrence, the Head of the House, is a tower 
 of strength, like all the Lawrences." 
 
 " How did you beguile the Duke of Trent? " 
 
 " Fortune gave me that weapon. The duke " — 
 he laughed genially 
 
KRAIPALE 49 
 
 " Yes? " 
 
 " Will turn scales which my heaviest arguments 
 won't budge, A bit of luckl The duke wanted to 
 to send his son, a delicate lad, to Harrow, and I did 
 mention to him that Rutford had a vacancy." 
 
 " O Ulysses! And Scaife? How did you handle 
 that large bale of bank-notes? " 
 
 " Rutford captured Scaife." 
 
 " Handsome boy — his son. Lunched with us this 
 morning. Well, well, you have persuaded me. But 
 what an unpleasant quarter of an hour I shall have 
 with Harry! " 
 
 As a new boy, John slaved at " footer," and dis- 
 played a curious inaptitude for squash racquets. At 
 all games Caesar and Scaife were precociously pro- 
 ficient. John's clumsiness annoyed them. They told 
 him to play cat's-cradle with Fluff, and he realized 
 the gulf between himself and Caesar was widening 
 Instead of narrowing. Often the Caterpillar joined 
 him and Fluff, giving them to understand that this 
 must be regarded as an act of grace and condescen- 
 sion which might be suitably acknowledged at the 
 Tudor Creameries. 
 
 The Caterpillar mightily Impressed the two small 
 boys. He wore " Charity tails," as they were called, 
 the swallow-tail coat of the Upper School mercifully 
 given to boys of the Lower School who are too tall 
 to wear with decency the short Eton jacket; he pos- 
 sessed a trouser-press ; and his " bags " were perfectly 
 creased and quite spotless. From tip to toe, at all 
 
so THE HILL' 
 
 seasons and in all weathers, he looked conspicuously 
 spick and span. Chaff provoked the solemn retort: 
 " One should be well groomed." He spoke imper- 
 sonally, considering it bad form to use the first person 
 singular. Amongst the small boys he ranked as the 
 Petronius of the Lower School. 
 
 One day the Caterpillar said grandiloquently, 
 " You kids will oblige me by not shouting and yell- 
 ing when you speak to me. I've a bit of a head." 
 
 " What's wrong with it? " said Fluff. 
 
 " It looks splendid outside," said John, in his 
 serious voice. 
 
 The Caterpillar, detecting no cheek, answered 
 gravely — 
 
 " Some of us had a wet night of it, last night." 
 
 "Wet?" exclaimed the innocent Fluff. "Why, 
 all the stars were shining." 
 
 " Your brothers at Eton know what a ' wet night ' 
 means," said the Caterpillar. " I was talking with 
 one of the Fifth, when a fellow came in with a flask, 
 A gentleman ought to be able to carry a few glasses 
 of wine, but one is not accustomed to spirits." 
 
 "Spirits?" 
 
 " Whisky, not prussic acid, you know." 
 
 " But where do they get the whisky? " demanded 
 John. 
 
 " Comparing it with my father's old Scotch, I 
 should say at the grocer's," replied the Caterpillar. 
 " There's some drinking going on in our house, and 
 — and other things. One mentions it to you kids 
 as a warning." 
 
KRAI PALE 51 
 
 " Thanks," said John. 
 
 " Not at all ; you're rather decent little beggars. 
 They" (the Fifth Form was indicated), "they've 
 let you alone so far, but you may have trouble next 
 term, so look out! And if you want advice come 
 to me." 
 
 Beneath his absurd pompous manner beat a kindly 
 heart, and the small boys divined this and were 
 grateful. None the less the word " spirits " fright- 
 ened them. Next day John happened to find himself 
 alone with Caesar. Very nervously he asked the 
 question — 
 
 " I say, do any of the big fellows at Damer's 
 drink? " 
 
 "Drink? Drink— what?" 
 
 " Well, spirits." 
 
 Caesar snorted an indignant denial. The fellows 
 at Damer's were above that sort of thing. The 
 house prided itself upon its tone. Tone constituted 
 Damer's glory, and was the secret of its success. 
 John nodded, but two days afterwards the Demon 
 took him by the arm, twisted it sharply, and said — ■ 
 
 " What the deuce did you mean by telling Caesar 
 that the Manorites drink? " 
 
 " Oh, Scaife— I didn't." 
 
 " You gave us away." 
 
 " Us? " John's eyes opened. " Yoii don't drink 
 with 'em? " he faltered. 
 
 " Don't bother your head about what I do, or 
 don't do," Scaife answered roughly; "and because 
 you took the Lower Remove don't think for an 
 
52 THE HILL 
 
 instant that you are on a par with Caesar and me, or 
 even the old Caterpillar — for you ain't." 
 
 " I know that," said John, humbly. 
 
 " Don't forget it, or there may be ructions." 
 
 " I shan't forget it." 
 
 " That's right. And, by the way, you're getting 
 into the habit of hanging about Cassar, which bores 
 him to death. Stop it." 
 
 But to this John made no reply. He read dislike 
 in Scaife's bold eyes, detected it in his clear peremp- 
 tory voice, felt it in the cruel twist of the arm. And 
 he had brains enough to know that Scaife was not 
 the boy to dislike any one without reason. John 
 crawled to the conclusion that Scaife had become 
 jealous of his increasing intimacy with Desmond. 
 
 However, when the three boys were preparing 
 their Greek for First School, Scaife seemed his old 
 self, friendly, amusing, and cool as a cucumber. 
 Long ago he had initiated John into Manorite 
 methods of work. 
 
 " Our object is," he explained to the new boy, 
 " to get through the ' swat ' with as little squander- 
 ing of valuable time as possible. It doesn't pay to 
 be skewed. We must mug up our * cons ' well 
 enough to scrape along without ' puns ' and extra 
 school." 
 
 The three co-operated. Out of forty lines of Ver- 
 gil, Scaife would do fifteen, John fifteen, and the 
 Caterpillar ten; ten, because, as he pointed out, he 
 had been nearly three years in the school. Then each 
 fellow in turn construed his lines for the benefit of 
 
KRAIPALE 53 
 
 the others. A difficult passage was taken by Scaife 
 to a clever friend in the Fifth. Sometimes Scaife 
 would be absent twenty minutes, returning flushed 
 of face, and slightly excited. John wondered if he 
 had been drinking, and wondered also what Caesar 
 would say if he knew. About this time fear pos- 
 sessed his soul that Caesar would come into the 
 Manor and be taught by Scaife to drink. An occa- 
 sional nightmare took the form of a desperate 
 struggle between himself and Scaife, in which Scaife, 
 by virtue of superior strength and skill, had the 
 mastery, dragging off the beloved Caesar, to plunge 
 with him into fathomless pools of Scotch whisky. 
 Somehow, in these horrid dreams, Caesar played an 
 impressive part. Scaife and John fought for his 
 body, while he looked on, an absurd state of affairs, 
 never — as John reflected in his waking hours — likely 
 to happen in real life. Of all boys Caesar seemed 
 to be the best equipped to fight his own battles, and 
 to take, as he would have put it, " jolly good care of 
 himself." 
 
 After the first of the football house-matches, 
 Scaife got his " fez " from Lawrence, the captain of 
 the House Eleven, and the only member of the 
 School Eleven in Dirty Dick's. Some of the big fel- 
 lows in the Fifth seized this opportunity to " cele- 
 brate," as they called it. Scaife was popular with 
 the Fifth because — as John discovered later — he 
 cheerfully lent money to some of them and never 
 pressed for repayment. And Scaife's getting his 
 " fez " before he was fifteen might be reckoned an 
 
54 THE HILU 
 
 achievement. Caesar, in particular, could talk of 
 nothing else. He predicted that the Demon would 
 be Captain of both Elevens, school racquet-player, 
 and bloom into a second C. B. Fry. 
 
 John, upon this eventful evening, soon became 
 aware of a shindy. It happened that Rutford was 
 giving a dinner-party, and extremely unlikely to 
 leave the private side of the house. John heard 
 snatches of song, howls, and cheers. Ordinarily 
 Lawrence (in whose passage the shindy was taking 
 place) would have stopped this hullabaloo; but Law- 
 rence was dining with his house-master, and Trieve, 
 an undersized, weakly stripling, lacked the moral 
 courage to interfere. John was getting a " con " 
 from Trieve when an unusually piercing howl pene- 
 trated the august seclusion. 
 
 "What are they doing?" asked Trieve irri- 
 tably. 
 
 John hesitated. " It's the Fifth," he blurted out. 
 " They've got Scaife in there, you know." 
 
 "Oh, indeed! Scaife is an excuse, is he, for 
 this fiendish row? Go and tell Scaife I want to 
 see him." 
 
 John looked rather frightened. He felt like a 
 spaniel about to retrieve a lion. And scurrying 
 along the passage he ran headlong into the Duffer, 
 to whom he explained his errand. 
 
 " Hang itl " said that young gentleman. " I'd 
 sooner it was you than me, Verney. They're pretty 
 well ginned-up, I can tell you." 
 
 John tapped timidly at the door of the room 
 
KRAIPALE 55 
 
 whence the songs and laughter proceeded. Then 
 he tapped again, and again. Finally, summoning 
 his courage, he rapped hard. Instantly there was 
 silence, and then a furtive rustling of papers, fol- 
 lowed by a constrained " Come in ! " 
 
 John entered. 
 
 Most of the boys — there were about six of them 
 — gazed at him in stupefaction. Scaife, very red 
 in the face, burst into shrill shouts of laughter. 
 Somehow the laughter disconcerted John. He for- 
 got to deliver his message, but stood staring at Scaife, 
 quaking with a young boy's terror of the unknown. 
 Upon the table were some siphons, syrups, and the 
 remains of a " spread." 
 
 "What the blazes do you want?" said Lovell, 
 the owner of the room. 
 
 " I want Scaife," said John. " I mean that Trieve 
 wants Scaife." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Trieve wants Master Scaife, does 
 she? Well, young 'un, you tell Trieve, with my 
 compliments, that Scaife can't come. See? Now 
 —hook it!" 
 
 But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's 
 dishevelled appearance, his wild eyes, his shrill 
 laughter, revealed another Scaife. 
 
 " You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered. 
 
 " Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously 
 high-pitched voice, quite unlike his usual cool quiet 
 tone. " Wait a mo' — I'm not Trieve's fag. I'm 
 nobody's fag now, am I? " 
 
 He appealed to the crowd. It was unwritten rule 
 
S6 THE HILL 
 
 at the Manor, that members of the house cricket or 
 football Elevens were exempt from fagging. But 
 the common law of fagging at Harrow holds that 
 any lower boy is bound to obey the Monitors, pro- 
 vided such obedience is not contrary to the rules of 
 the school. In practice, however, no boy is fagged 
 outside his own house, except for cricket-fagging in 
 the summer term. 
 
 "Fag? Not you 1 Tell Miss Trieve to mind her 
 own business." 
 
 John departed, feeling that an older and wiser 
 boy might have tact to cope with this situation. 
 For him, no course of action presented itself except 
 delivering what amounted to a declaration of war. 
 
 " Won't come? Is he mad? " 
 
 " ' Can't come,' they said." 
 
 " Oh, can't come ? Has he hurt himself — 
 sprained anything? " 
 
 John was truthful (more of a habit than some 
 people believe). He told the truth, just as some 
 boys quibble and prevaricate, simply and naturally. 
 But now, he hesitated. If he hinted — a hint would 
 suffice — that Scaife had hurt himself — and what 
 more likely after the furious bit of playing which 
 had secured his " fez " ? — ^Trieve, probably, would 
 do nothing. John felt in his bones that Trieve 
 would be glad of an excuse to do — nothing. 
 
 " No; he hasn't sprained himself." 
 
 " Then why don't he come? " 
 
 " I — I " Then he burst into excited speech. 
 
 *' He looks as if he was a little mad. Oh, Trieve, 
 
KRAIPALE 57 
 
 won't you leave him alone ? Please do ! They must 
 stop before prayers, and then Lawrence will be here." 
 
 O unhappy John — thou art not a diplomatist! 
 Why lug in Lawrence, who has inspired mordant 
 jealousy and envy in the heart of his second in 
 command ? 
 
 " Tell Scalfe to come here at once," said Trleve, 
 eying a couple of canes in the corner. " And if he 
 should happen to ask what I want him for, say that 
 I mean to whop him." 
 
 John fled. 
 
 "Whop him?" 
 
 The Fifth howled rage and remonstrance. Scaife 
 fiercely announced his inteiltion of not taking a 
 whopping from Trieve. None the less, the an- 
 nouncement had a sobering effect upon the elder boys. 
 The consequence of a refusal must prove serious. 
 Sooner or later Scaife would be whopped, probably 
 by Lawrence, no ha'penny matter that. 
 
 " You'd better go. Demon," said Lovell. " Trieve 
 can't hurt you. I'd speak to the idiot, only he hates 
 me so poisonously, just as I hate him." 
 
 " I'll go," said the Caterpillar. 
 
 John had not noticed the Caterpillar before. He 
 stood up, spick and span, carefully adjusting his coat, 
 pulling down his immaculate cuffs. 
 
 " Good old Caterpillar," said somebody. " By 
 Jove, he really thinks that Trieve will listen to — 
 him I" 
 
 " Any one who has been nearly three years in 
 this house," said the Caterpillar, " has the right to 
 
58 THE hill; 
 
 tell Miss Trleve that she is — er — not behaving like 
 a lady." 
 
 " And he'll tell you you're screwed, you old fool." 
 
 " I am not screwed," replied the Caterpillar, sol- 
 emnly. "Whisky and potass does not agree with 
 everybody; but I am not screwed, not at all." So 
 speaking he sat down rather suddenly. 
 
 Lovell shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the 
 Caterpillar and Scaife, and left the room. Within 
 two minutes he returned,. chapf alien and frowning. 
 
 " I knew it would be useless. Look here. Demon, 
 you must grin and bear it." 
 
 " No," said Scaife, " not from Miss Trieve." 
 
 He laughed as before. The Fifth exchanged 
 glances. Then Scaife said thickly, " Give me another 
 drink, I want a drink ; so does young Verney. Look 
 at him!" 
 
 John was white about the gills and trembling, but 
 not for himself. 
 
 " Do go, Scaife! " he entreated. 
 
 The Fifth formed a group; holding a council of 
 war, engrossed in trying to find a way out of a wood 
 which of a sudden had turned into a tangled thicket. 
 And so what each would have strenuously prevented 
 came to pass. Scaife pulled a bottle from under a 
 sofa-cushion, and put it to his lips — ^John, standing 
 at the door, could not see what was taking place. 
 
 When the bottle was torn from Scaife's hands, 
 the mischief had been done. The boy had swallowed 
 a quantity of raw spirit. Till now the whisky ha<J 
 been much diluted with mineral water, 
 
KRAIPALE 59 
 
 " I'm going to him," yelled Scaife, struggling 
 with his friends. '* And I'm going to take a cricket 
 stump with me. Le'me go — le'me go I " 
 
 The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust. After 
 a brief struggle Scaife succumbed, helpless and 
 senseless. The window was flung wide open, eau 
 de Cologne liberally applied. Scaife lay like a 
 log. 
 
 And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve 
 walked in. 
 
 " Scaife has had a sort of fit," explained an ac- 
 complished liar. " You know what his temper Is, 
 Trieve? And when he heard that you meant to 
 ' whop ' him, he went stark staring mad." 
 
 This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve 
 accepted It, probably with mental reservations. 
 
 " You had better send for Mrs. Puttick," he re- 
 plied coldly. 
 
 The Caterpillar was despatched for the matron; 
 but before that worthy woman panted upstairs, 
 Scaife had been carried to his own room, hastily 
 undressed and put into bed, where he lay breathing 
 stertorously. The matron, good easy soul, accepted 
 the boys' story unhesitatingly. A fit, of course, poor 
 dear child? Mr. Rutford must be summoned. 
 
 With the optimism of youth, those present began 
 to hope that dust might be thrown Into the eyes of 
 Dirty Dick. And with a little discreet delay, the 
 Demon might recover, when he could be relied upon 
 to play his part with adroitness and ability. Accord- 
 ingly, the matron was urged to try her ministering 
 
6o THE HILL 
 
 hand first, amid the chaff, which, even in emergencies, 
 slips so easily out of boys' mouths. 
 
 " Mrs. Puttick, you're better than any doctor — 
 Scaife is all right, really. We knew that he was 
 subject to fits — Rather! Some one was telling me 
 that one of his aunts died in a fit — Shut up, you silly 
 fool," this in a whisper emphasized by a kick; " do 
 you want to send her out of this with a hornets' nest 
 tied to her back hair? — That's a lie, Mrs. Puttick. 
 He's humbugging you. Scaife told me that his fits 
 were nothing. Yes; he had a slight sunstroke when 
 he was a kid, you know, and the least bit of excite- 
 ment affects him." 
 
 " Perhaps I'd better fetch a drop of brandy," 
 said Mrs. Puttick, staring anxiously at Scaife. " He 
 looks very bad." 
 
 "Yes, please do, Mrs. Puttick." 
 
 She bustled away. 
 
 " Now we must bring him to," said the Fifth 
 Form. 
 
 Everything was tried, even to the expedient of 
 flicking Scaife's body with a wet towel; but the boy 
 lay motionless, his face horribly red against the white 
 pillow, his heavy breathing growing more laboured 
 and louder. And despite the perfume of the eau de 
 Cologne which had drenched pillow and pyjamas, the 
 smell of whisky spread terror to the crowd. If Rut- 
 ford came in, he would swoop on the truth. 
 
 " We'll souse the brandy all over him," said the 
 Caterpillar; " and then no one can guess." 
 , " How about burnt feathers? " suggested LovcU. 
 
KRAIPALE 6 1 
 
 He had seen a fainting housemaid treated with this 
 family restorative. 
 
 Mrs. Puttick appeared with the brandy, which 
 Lovell administered externally. Still, Scaife re- 
 mained unconscious. Then a pillow was ripped open, 
 and enough feathers burned to restore — as the Cater- 
 pillar put it afterwards — a ruined cathedral. The 
 stench filled the passage and brought to No. 15 a 
 chattering crowd of Lower Boys. And then the con- 
 viction seized everybody that Scaife was going to 
 die. 
 
 " Make way, make way, please I " 
 
 It was Rutford, who, followed by Lawrence, 
 strode down the passage into No. 15, and up to the 
 bed. 
 
 " If you please, sir," said Lovell, " Scaife has had 
 a fit." 
 
 " It looks like a fit," said Rutford, gravely. " I 
 have telephoned for the doctor. You've tried," he 
 sniffed the air, " all the wrong remedies, of course. 
 Feathers — Phaugh! — perfume — brandy I The boy 
 must be propped up and the blood drawn from his 
 head by applying hot water to his feet." 
 
 The Fifth exchanged glances. Why had this not 
 occurred to them? What a fool Mrs. Puttick 
 wasl 
 
 "A rush of blood to the head." Rutford liked 
 to hold forth, and he had been told that he was a 
 capital after-dinner speaker. He had just risen from 
 an excellent dinner; he was not much alarmed; and 
 his audience listened with flattering attention. Scaife 
 
62 THE HILL 
 
 was lifted into a chair; ice was applied to his head; 
 his feet were thrust into a " tosh " filled with 
 steaming water. 
 
 " Note the effect," said Rutford. Already a slight 
 change might be perceived; the breathing became 
 easier, the face less red. Rutford continued in his 
 best manner : " Mark the vis medicatrix naturce. 
 Nature, assisted by hot water, gently accomplishes 
 her task. Very simple, and not one of you had the 
 wit to think of a remedy close at hand, and so easy 
 to administer. The breathing is becoming normal. 
 In a few minutes I predict that we shall have the 
 satisfaction of seeing the poor dear fellow open his 
 eyes, and he will tell us that he is but little the worse. 
 Yes, yes, a rush of blood to the head producing cere- 
 bral disturbance." 
 
 He smiled blandly, receiving the homage of the 
 Fifth. 
 
 " And now, Lovell, what do you know about this ? 
 Did this fit take place here? " 
 
 " In my room, sir." 
 
 " In your room — eh? What was Scaife, a Lower 
 Boy, doing in your room? " 
 
 " Lawrence gave him his * fez ' to-day, sir." 
 
 Lawrence nodded. 
 
 " Ah I And Scaife was excited, perhaps unduly 
 excited — eh? " 
 
 The Fifth joined in a chorus of, " Yes, sir. — Oh 
 yes, sir — awfully excited, sir. — Never saw a boy so 
 excited, sir." 
 
 " That will do. Now, Lovell, go onl " 
 
KRAIPALE 63 
 
 " We had some siphons in our room, sir." A 
 stroke of genius this — for the siphons were still on 
 the table and the syrups, and the debris of cakes and 
 meringues. Rutford would be sure to examine the 
 scene of the catastrophe; and the whisky bottle was 
 carefully hidden. " We were having a spread, sir, 
 and we asked Scaife to join us. His play to-day made 
 him one of us." 
 
 The other boys gazed admiringly at Lovell. 
 What a cool, knowing hand! 
 
 " Yes, yes, I see nothing objectionable about that." 
 
 " Well, sir — we were rather noisy " 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " To speak the exact truth, sir, I fear we were very 
 noisy; and Trieve, it seems, heard us. Instead of 
 sending for me, sir, he sent Verney for Scaife " 
 
 "Ah I" 
 
 Lovell's hesitation at this point was really worthy 
 of Coquelin cadet. 
 
 " Of course you know, sir, that Scaife's getting 
 his * fez ' releases him from house-fagging. We 
 thought Trieve had forgotten that, sir; and that it 
 would be rather fun — I'm not excusing myself, sir — 
 we thought it would be a harmless joke If we per- 
 suaded Scaife not to go." 
 
 "Uml" 
 
 " We were very foolish, sir. And then Trieve 
 sent another message saying that Scaife was to go 
 to his room at once to be — whopped." 
 
 " To be whopped. Um I Rather drastic that, 
 very drastic under the circumstances." 
 
64 THE HILL 
 
 " So we thought, sir; and I went to represent the 
 facts to Trieve " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I'm not much of a peacemaker, I fear, sir. 
 Trieve refused to listen to me. He insisted upon 
 whopping Scaife for what he called disobedience and 
 impudence. Upon my honour, sir, I tried, we all 
 tried, to persuade Scaife to take his whopping quietly, 
 but he seemed to go quite mad. He has a violent 
 temper, sir " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " A very violent temper. He — he- 
 
 " Frothed at the mouth," put in a bystander. " I 
 particularly noticed that." 
 
 " Really, really " 
 
 " Yes," said Lovell, nodding his head reflectively. 
 " He frothed at the mouth, and then " 
 
 " Grew quite black in the face," interpolated a 
 third boy, who was determined that Lovell should 
 not carry off all the honours. 
 
 " I should say — purple," amended Lovell. " And 
 then he gave " 
 
 " A beastly gurgle " 
 
 " A sort of snort, and fell flat on his face. I'm 
 not sure that he didn't strike the edge of the table 
 as he fell." 
 
 " He did," said one of the boys. " I saw 
 that." 
 
 At this moment Scaife moved in his chair, drawing 
 all eyes to his face. John, peering from behind the 
 circle of big boys, could see the first signs of return- 
 
KRAIPALE 65 
 
 Ing consciousness, a flicker of the eyelids, a convulsive 
 tremor of the limbs. Rutford bent down. 
 
 "Well, my dear Scaife, how are you? We've 
 been a little anxious, all of us, but, I ventured to 
 predict, without cause. Tell us, my poor boy, how 
 do you feel? " 
 
 Scaife opened his eyes. Then he groaned dis- 
 mally. Rutford was standing to the right of 
 the chair and footbath. The Fifth were facing 
 Scaife. 
 
 He met their anxious, admonishing glances, unable 
 to interpret them. 
 
 Lovell repeated the house-master's question — 
 
 " How are you, old chap? " 
 
 But, in his anxiety to convey a warning, he came 
 too near, obscuring Rutford's massive figure. Scaife 
 groaned again, putting his hand to his head. 
 
 " How am I ? " he repeated thickly. " Why, why, 
 I'm jolly well screwed, Lovell; that's how I ami 
 Jolly well screwed — hay ? Ugh I how screwed I 
 am. Ugh I" 
 
 The groans fell on a terrifying silence. Rutford 
 glanced keenly from face to face. Then he said 
 slowly — 
 
 " The wretched boy is — drunk! " 
 
 At the sound of his house-master's voice, Scaife 
 relapsed into an insensibility which no one at the 
 moment cared to pronounce counterfeit or genuine. 
 Rutford glared at Lovell. 
 
 " Who was in your room, Lovell? " 
 
 Without waiting for Lovell to answer, the other 
 
66 THE HILL' 
 
 boys, each in turn, said, " I, sir," or " Me, sir." 
 John came last. 
 
 " Anybody else, Lovell? " 
 
 A discreet master would not have asked this ques- 
 tion, but Dirty Dick was the last man to waive an 
 advantage. 
 
 Now, the Caterpillar had quietly left No. 15, 
 as soon as Rutford entered it. Not from any 
 cowardly motive, but — as he put it afterwards — 
 " because one makes a point of retiring whenever a 
 rank outsider appears. One ought to be particular 
 about the company one keeps." It says something 
 for the boy's character, that this statement was ac- 
 cepted by the house as unvarnished truth. Lovell 
 glanced at the other fifth Form boys, as Rutford 
 repeated the question. 
 
 "Anybody else, Lovell? Be careful how you 
 answer me ! " 
 
 " Nobody else," said Lovell. 
 
 " On your honour, sir? " 
 
 " On my honour, sir." 
 
 And, later, all Manorites declared that Lovell 
 had lied like a gentleman. Rutford and he stared 
 at each other, the boy pale, but self-possessed, the big 
 burly man flushed and ill at ease. 
 
 " You will all go to my study. A word with you, 
 Lawrence." 
 
 The boys filed quietly out. Rutford looked at 
 John and Fluff. Large fat tears were trickling down 
 'Fluff's cheeks. Somehow he felt convinced that John 
 was involved in a frightful row. 
 
KRAIPALE 67 
 
 " Run away, Kinloch," said his house-master. " I 
 wish to speak with Lawrence and Verney." 
 
 He turned to Lawrence as he spoke. John 
 glanced at Scaife. His eyes were open. Silently, 
 Scaife placed a trembling finger upon his lips. The 
 action, the expression in the eyes, were unmistakable. 
 John understood, as plainly as if Scaife had spoken, 
 that silence, where expulsion impended, was not only 
 expedient but imperative. Kinloch crept out of the 
 room. Rutford examined Scaife, who feigned insen- 
 sibility. Then he addressed Lawrence. 
 
 " Go to Lovell's room, Lawrence, and institute a 
 thorough search. If you find wine or spirits, let me 
 know at once." 
 
 Lawrence left the room. 
 
 " Now, Verney, I am going to ask you a few ques- 
 tions." He assumed his rasping truculent tone. 
 " And don't you dare to tell me lies, sir! " 
 
 John was about to repudiate warmly his house- 
 master's brutal injunction, when the habit of think- 
 ing before he spoke closed his half-opened lips. 
 Immediately, his face assumed the obstinate expres- 
 sionless look which made those who searched no 
 deeper than the surface pronounce him a dull boy. 
 Rutford, for instance, interpreted this stolidity as 
 unintelligence and lack of perception. John, mean- 
 time, was struggling with a thought which shaped 
 itself slowly into a plan of action. He had just 
 heard Lovell lie to save the Caterpillar. John knew 
 well enough that he might be called upon to lie also, 
 to save not himself, but Scaife. If he held his 
 
68 THE HILL 
 
 tongue and refused to answer questions, Rutford 
 would assume, and with reason, that Scaife had been 
 made drunk by the Fifth Form fellows. 
 
 Then John said quietly, " I am not a liar, sir." 
 
 " Certainly, I have never detected you in a lie," 
 said Rutford. 
 
 " All the same," continued John, in a hesitating 
 manner, " I would lie, if I thought a lie might save 
 a friend's life." 
 
 Rutford was so unprepared for this deliberate 
 statement, that he could only reply — 
 
 "Oh, you would, would you?" 
 
 "Yes," said John; then he added, "Any decent 
 boy or man would." 
 
 " Oh ! Oh, jndeed ! This Is very interesting. Go 
 on, Verney." 
 
 " Scaife said he felt as if he was jolly well screwed, 
 sir; but he isn't. I'm quite sure he isn't. He may 
 feel like it ; but he isn't." 
 
 John could see Scaife's eyes, slightly blood-shot, 
 but sparkling with a sort of diabolical sobriety. At 
 that moment, one thing alone seemed certain, Scaife 
 had regained full possession of his faculties. Rut- 
 ford stared at John, frowning. 
 
 " You dare to look me in the face and tell me that 
 Scaife is not drunk? " 
 
 Very seriously, John answered, " I'm sure he's 
 not drunk, sir." 
 
 Rutford eyed the boy keenly. 
 
 "Have you ever seen anybody drunk?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
KRAIPALE 69 
 
 " I live in the New Forest," said John, as gravely 
 
 as before, " and on Whit-Monday " He was 
 
 aware that he had made an impression upon this big, 
 truculent man. 
 
 " Don't try to be funny with me, Verney." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, as if I should dare ! " 
 
 " Well, well, we are wasting time. Trieve sent 
 you to Lovell's room to fetch Scaife? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And what was Scaife doing when you went into 
 the room ? Be very careful 1 " 
 
 John considered. " He was laughing, sir." 
 
 " Laughing, was he? " 
 
 " But he stopped laughing when I gave him 
 Trieve's message, and then he said what Lovell told 
 you, sir." 
 
 " Never mind what Lovell told me. Give your 
 version of the story." 
 
 " Scaife asked the other fellows if Trieve had any 
 right to fag him, now that he had got his ' fez.' 
 If he had been drunk, sir, he wouldn't have thought 
 of that, would he? " 
 
 " Um," said Rutford, slightly shaken. John de- 
 scribed his return to Trieve's room, and Trieve's 
 threat. 
 
 " Lovell and you tell the same story." 
 
 " Why, yes, sir." John made no deliberate at- 
 tempt to look simple; but his face, to the master 
 studying it, seemed quite guileless. 
 
 Just then, Dumbleton ushered in the doctor. To 
 him Rutford recited what he knew and what he sus- 
 
70 THE HILL 
 
 pected. He had hardly finished speaking, when 
 Scaife opened his eyes for the second time. By a 
 curious coincidence, the doctor used the words of the 
 house-master. 
 
 " Well, sir, how do you feel? " 
 
 And then Scaife answered, in the same dazed 
 fashion as before — 
 
 " I feel as if I was jolly well screwed, sir." 
 
 Rutford nodded portentously. 
 
 " I feel," continued Scaife, " as I did once long 
 ago, when I was a kid and got hold of some curagoa 
 at one of my father's parties." 
 
 " Just so," said the doctor. 
 
 " Same buzzing in the head, same beastly feeling, 
 same — same old — same old — giddiness." He closed 
 his eyes, and his head fell heavily upon his chest. 
 
 " It looks like concussion," said the doctor, doubt- 
 fully. " You say he fell? " He turned to John. 
 
 " I was just outside the door," said John. 
 
 " We'll put him into the sick-room, Mr. Rutford. 
 And in a day or two he'll be himself again." 
 
 "Are you sure that what I — er — feared — 
 er ?" 
 
 The doctor frowned. " The boy has had brandy, 
 of course." 
 
 " Mrs. Puttick and Lovell gave him plenty of 
 that," John interpolated. 
 
 " I believe you can exonerate the boy entirely," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 John saw that Rutford seemed relieved. 
 
 *' I have ordered LoveU's room to be searched. 
 
KRAIPALE 71 
 
 If no wine or spirits are found, I shall be glad to be- 
 lieve that I have made a very pardonable mistake." 
 
 While Scaife was being removed, Lawrence came 
 in with his report. Nothing alcoholic had been dis- 
 covered in Lovell's room. After prayers, which 
 were late that night, Dirty Dick made a short speech. 
 
 " I had reason to suspect," said he, " that a gross 
 breach of the rules of the school had been made to- 
 night by certain boys In this house. It appears I 
 was mistaken. No more will be said on the subject 
 by me ; and I think that the less said by you, big and 
 small, the better. Good night." 
 
 He strode away into the private side. 
 
 Two days later, Scaife came back to No. 15. 
 John wondered why he stared at him so hard upon 
 the first occasion when they happened to be alone. 
 Then Scaife said — 
 
 " Well, young Verney, I sha'n't forget that, if it 
 hadn't been for you, I should have been sacked. 
 And I sha'n't forget either that you're not half such 
 a fool as you look." 
 
 John exhibited surprise. 
 
 " The way you handled the beast," continued 
 Scaife, " was masterly. I heard every word, though 
 my head was bursting. I shall tell Lovell that 
 you saved us. Oh, Lord — didn't I give the show 
 away? " 
 
 He never tried to read the perplexity upon the 
 other's face, but went away laughing. He came 
 back with the Caterpillar half an hour later, and the 
 three boys sat down as usual to prepare some Livy. 
 
72 THE HILL 
 
 John was sensible that his companions treated him 
 not only as an equal — a new and agreeable exper- 
 ience — ^but as a friend. In the course of the first ten 
 minutes Scaife said to the Caterpillar — 
 
 " He told Dick to his face that he would lie to 
 save a pal." 
 
 And the Caterpillar replied seriously, " Good kid, 
 very good kid. Lovell says he's going to give a tea 
 in his honour." 
 
 " No he isn't. It's my turn." 
 
 Accordingly, upon the next half holiday, Scaife 
 gave a tea at the Creameries. Of all the strange 
 things that had happened during the past fortnight, 
 this to our simple John seemed the strangest. He 
 was not conscious of having done or said anything 
 to justify the esteem and consideration in which 
 Scaife, the Caterpillar, and Lovell seemed to hold 
 him. 
 
 " You've forgotten Desmond," he said to Scaife, 
 when the latter mentioned the names of his guests. 
 
 " Csesar isn't coming. By the way, Verney, 
 you've not been talking to Caesar about the row in 
 our house? " 
 
 " No," said John. " Lawrence came round and 
 said that I must keep my mouth shut." 
 
 " And naturally you did what you were told to 
 do?" , 
 
 The half-mocking tone disappeared in a burst of 
 laughter as John answered — 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 " And I suppose it never entered your head that 
 
KRAIPALE 73 
 
 Lawrence would not have been so particular about 
 shutting your mouth without good reason." 
 
 " Perhaps," said John, after a pause, " Lawrence 
 was in a funk lest, lest " 
 
 "Go on!" 
 
 " Lest the thing would be exaggerated." 
 
 " Exactly. Lots of fellows would go about say- 
 ing that I was dead drunk — eh? " 
 
 " They might." 
 
 " And that would be coming dangerously near the 
 truth." 
 
 " Oh, Scaifel Then you really were " 
 
 Scaife laughed again. " Yes, I really was, my 
 Moses in the bulrushes! Don't look so miserable. 
 I guessed all along that you weren't quite in the 
 know. Well, I'm every bit as grateful. You stood 
 up to Dick like a hero. And my tea is in your 
 honour." 
 
 " Oh, Scaife— you — ^you won't do it again? " 
 
 "Get screwed?" said Scaife, gravely. "I shall 
 not. It isn't good enough. We've chucked the 
 stuff away." 
 
 " If they'd found it " 
 
 " Ah — if ! The old Caterpillar attended to that. 
 He's a downy bird, I can tell you. When Dick 
 came into our room, he slipped back to Lovell's 
 room, carried! off the whisky, hid it, washed the 
 glasses, and then dirtied them with siphon and syrup. 
 The Caterpillar and you showed great head. We 
 shall drink your healths to-morrow — in tea and 
 chocolate." 
 
74 THE HILL 
 
 John wondered what Scaife had said to the Fifth. 
 At any rate, they asked John no questions, and treated 
 him with distinguished courtesy and favour; but that 
 evening, when John was fagging in Lawrence's room, 
 the great man said abruptly — 
 
 " I saw you walking with Lovell this afternoon." 
 
 John explained. Lawrence frowned. 
 
 " Oh, you've been celebrating, have you ? Thanks- 
 giving service at the Creameries. Now, look here, 
 Verney, I've met your uncle, and he asked me to 
 keep an eye on you. Because of that I made you 
 my fag — ^you, a green hand, when I had the pick of 
 the House." 
 
 " It was awfully good of you," said John, 
 warmly. 
 
 " We'll sink that. I'm five years older than you, 
 and I know every blessed — and cursed" — he spoke 
 with great emphasis — " thing that goes on in this 
 house. I know, for instance, that dust was thrown, 
 and very cleverly thrown, into Rutford's eyes, and 
 you helped to throw it. Don't speak! You didn't 
 quite know what you were up to. Well, it's lucky 
 for Lovell and Co. that one innocent kid was mixed 
 up in that affair. But it's been rather unlucky for 
 you. I'd sooner see you kicked about a bit by those 
 fellows than petted — I'm sorry — sorry, do you hear? 
 — the whole lot were not sacked. And now you can 
 hook it. I've said enough, perhaps too much, but 
 I believe I can trust you." 
 
 After this John showed his gratitude by painstak- 
 ing attention to fagging. Lawrence became aware 
 
KRAIPALE 75 
 
 of faithful service: that his toast was always done to 
 a turn, that his daily paper was warmed, as John had 
 seen the butler at home warm the Times, that his 
 pens were changed, his blotting-paper renewed, and 
 so forth. In John's eyes, Lawrence occupied a posi- 
 ^tlon near the apex of the world's pyramid of great 
 men. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 TORPIDS 
 
 "Again we rush across the slush, 
 A pack of breathless faces, 
 And charge and fall, and see the ball 
 Go whizzing through the bases." 
 
 The remainder of the term slipped away without 
 further accident or incident. Apart from the prep- 
 aration of work, John saw little of Scaife or Egerton. 
 The Fifth nodded to him in a friendly fashion when 
 he passed them in the street, and, greater kindness 
 on their part, left him alone. Possibly, Lawrence 
 had said a word to Lovell. Such leisure as John en- 
 joyed (a new boy at Harrow has not much) he spent 
 with the devoted Fluff. Desmond and Scaife walked 
 together on Sunday afternoons. But the fact that 
 Desmond seemed to be vanishing out of his horizon 
 made no difference to John's ever-Increasing affection 
 for him. Very humbly, he worshipped at a distance. 
 On clear, dry days Fluff and he would climb to the 
 top of the wall of the squash racquet-courts to see 
 Scaife and Desmond play a single. They were ex- 
 traordinarily well-matched in strength, activity, and 
 skill. John noticed, however, that the Demon lost 
 his temper when he lost a game, whereas Caesar only 
 laughed. Somehow John divined that the Demon 
 
 76 
 
TORPIDS T] 
 
 was making the effort of his Hfe to secure Desmond's 
 friendship. And Caesar had ideals, standards to 
 which the Demon pretended to attain. Good simple 
 John made sure that Cassar would elevate the Demon 
 to his plane, that evil would be exorcised by good. 
 Only in his dreams did the Demon have the advan- 
 tage. 
 
 Just before the end of the term, Ceesar said to 
 him — 
 
 " After all, I'm jolly glad I'm coming into your 
 House, because the old Demon is such a ripper; and 
 he and I have been talking things over. He's as 
 mad keen as I am about games, and although the 
 Manorites have not played in a cock-house match at 
 cricket or footer for years, still there is a chance for 
 us at Torpids next term. You'll play, Verney. 
 You've improved a lot, so the Demon says, and he'll 
 be captain. Then there are the sports. If only 
 Dirty Dick could be knocked on the head, the Manor 
 might jump to the front again." 
 
 " It will," said John. . 
 
 When the School reassembled after Christmas, 
 Desmond entered the Manor, and found himself 
 with Scaife in a two-room. A civil note from the 
 man of millions had arranged this. To John was 
 given a two-room also, with the Duffer as stable com- 
 panion. Fluff remained in No. 15. The Duffer 
 had got his remove from the Top Shell into John's 
 form. Scaife and Desmond were elevated into the 
 Upper Remove. It followed, therefore, that Scaife 
 and Desmond prepared work in their own room, the 
 
78 THE HILL 
 
 Caterpillar joining the Duffer and John. Thus it 
 will be seen that, although Desmond had become a 
 Manorite, he was, practically speaking, out of John's 
 orbit. 
 
 The Caterpillar had now been three years in the 
 school, and he governed himself accordingly. He 
 put on a " barmaid " ^ collar and spent much time on 
 the top step of the boys' entrance to the Manor. No 
 mere two-year-old presumed to occupy this sacred 
 spot. Had he dared to do so, the Caterpillar would 
 have made things very sultry for him. Also, he in- 
 formed the Duffer and John that, by virtue of his 
 position, he proposed to prepare no work at all. Each 
 " con " was divided Into two equal parts: the Duffer 
 " mugged " up one; John the other. Then the Ca- 
 terpillar would be summoned, and glean the harvest. 
 The Duffer had a crib or two, but the Caterpillar 
 forbade their use. 
 
 " You kids," said he, " ought not to use ' Bohns.' 
 Besides, it's dangerous." 
 
 The Caterpillar's deportment and coolness filled 
 John and the Duffer with respect and admiration. 
 The master in charge of the Lower Remove hap- 
 pened to be shortsighted. The Caterpillar took 
 shameful advantage of this. At repetitions, for in- 
 stance, he would read Horace's odes off a torn-out 
 page concealed in the palm of his hand, or — if prac- 
 ticable — pin the page on to the master's desk. 
 He had genius for extricating himself (and others) 
 
 1" Barmaid" collar is the double collar, at that time just com* 
 ing into fashion. 
 
TORPIDS 79 
 
 out of what boys call tight places. One anecdote, 
 welL known to the Lower School and repeated as 
 proof of the Caterpillar's masterly methods, may 
 serve to illustrate the sort of influence Egerton 
 wielded. When he was in the Fourth, his form met 
 in the Old Schools in a room not far from that 
 august chamber used by the Head Master and Upper 
 Sixth. One day, the master in charge of the form 
 happened to be late. The small boys in the passage 
 celebrated his absence with dance and song. When 
 the belated man arrived, a monitor awaited him. 
 The Head Master presented his compliments to Mr. 
 
 A and wished to learn the names of the boys 
 
 who had created such "a scandalous disturbance. 
 Mr. A — — invited the roysterers to give up their 
 names under penalties of extra school. Hateful 
 
 necessity! Silence succeeded. A grew irate. 
 
 The monitor tried to conceal a smile. 
 
 " Any boy who was making any noise at all — 
 stand up." 
 
 The Caterpillar rose slowly, long and thin, spick 
 and span. 
 
 " If you please, sir," said he, " I was whispering! " 
 
 A 's sense of humour was tickled. 
 
 " My compliments to the Head Master," said he, 
 " and please tell him I find, on careful inquiry, that 
 Egerton was — whispering." 
 
 A shout of laughter from Olympus proclaimed that 
 the message had been delivered. The Caterpillar 
 had saved the situation. 
 
 John became a disciple of this accomplished young 
 
8o THE hill; 
 
 gentleman and tried to imitate him. For Egerton 
 represented, faithfully enough, traditions to which 
 John bowed the knee. Upon any point of schoolboy 
 honour his authority ruled supreme. He told the 
 truth among his peers; he loathed obscenity; he dis- 
 liked and condemned bad language. 
 
 " The best men don't swear much," he would say. 
 " It's doosid bad form. I allow myself a ' damn ' 
 or two, nothing more. My great-grandfather, who 
 was one of the Regency lot, was known as Cursing 
 Egertoh, but nowadays we leave that sort of thing to 
 bargees." 
 
 Quite unconsciously, John assimilated the Cater- 
 pillar's axioms. 
 
 " We'ire not sent here at enormous expense to learn 
 only Latin and Greek. At Harrow and Eton one is 
 licked Into shape for the big things : diplomacy, pol- 
 itics, the Services. One is taught — ^manners, what? 
 I'm not a marrying sort of man, but if I do have sons 
 I shall send 'em here, even if I have to pinch a 
 bit." 
 
 This was the side of Egerton which appealed so 
 strongly to John. The Caterpillar was an Harro- 
 vian to the core, like the Duffer and Caesar Desmond. 
 He deplored the Increasing predominance of sons of 
 very rich men. And he anathematized Harrovian 
 fathers who were persuaded by Etonian wives to send 
 their sons to the Plain Instead of to the Hill. That 
 some of the famous Harrow families, who owed so 
 much to the School, should forsake it, seemed to 
 Egerton the unpardonable sin. 
 
TORPIDS 8 1 
 
 During this term, regretfully must it be recorded 
 that John scamped his " prep " and " ragged " in 
 form whenever a suitable chance presented itself. 
 The Duffer and he bribed a " Chaw " ^ to throw 
 gravel against the windows of the room where the 
 boys were supposed to be mastering the problems of 
 Euclid and algebra. The " tique " ^ master had been 
 Third Wrangler, but he couldn't tackle his Division 
 properly. Upon this occasion the " chaw " created 
 such a disturbance that (on audacious demand) leave 
 was granted to the Duffer and John to capture the 
 offender. The young rascals pursued the " chaw " 
 as far as the Metropolitan Station, and presented 
 that conscientious youth with another sixpence. Then 
 it occurred to John that it might be expedient to cap- 
 ture some bogus prisoner; so by means of talk, 
 sugared with chocolates, they persuaded a little girl 
 to Impersonate the thrower of gravel. The little 
 girl, carefully coached In her part, was led to the 
 Wrangler, but stage-fright made her burst Into tears 
 at the critical moment. Somehow or other the truth 
 leaked out ; the Duffer and John were sent up to the 
 Head Master and " swished." Each collected a 
 few twigs of the birch, carefully preserved to this 
 day. 
 
 Meantime, the Torpid house-matches were coming 
 on, and the School agreed, wonderingly, that Dirty 
 Dick's had a chance of being cock-house. The fact 
 
 1 " Chaw," short for Chawbacon. 
 
 2 " Tique," ab. for arithmetic. " Tique-beaks " are mathematical 
 masters. 
 
82 THE HILL 
 
 that the Manor had lost caste brought about this 
 possibility. Boys just under fifteen found room at 
 the Manor when other houses were full. All the 
 Manorites in the Shell and Removes were fellows 
 who had come to Harrow rather over than under 
 fourteen years of age. 
 
 And when the list of the Torpid Eleven was posted, 
 didn't John's heart boil with pride when he read his 
 own name at the bottom of it? 
 
 The Manor won the first and the second of the 
 matches. Then came the semi-finals with Damer's. 
 When the teams met in the playing-fields the differ- 
 ence in the size of the players was remarked. 
 Damer's Torpids were small boys, not much bigger 
 than John or the Duffer. But they had behind them 
 that stupendous force which is fashioned out of pride, 
 esprit de corps, self-confidence begotten of long-con- 
 tinued success, and, strongest of all, the conviction 
 that every man-Jack would fight till he dropped for 
 the honour and glory of the crack house at Harrow. 
 Not a boy in Damer's team was Scaife's equal as a 
 player, but in Scaife's strength lay the weakness of 
 the Manorites. They relied upon one player; 
 Damer's pinned faith to eleven. 
 
 As it happened to be a fine day, the School turned 
 out in force to witness the match. Most of the mas- 
 ters were present, and some ladies. Rutford, how- 
 ever, had business elsewhere. The School commented 
 upon his absence with sly smiles and shrugs of the 
 shoulder. Some of the Manorites were indifferent; 
 the better sort raged. The Caterpillar appeared 
 
TORPIDS 83 
 
 upon the ground in a faultless overcoat, carrying a 
 large bag of lemons. His straw hat was cocked at 
 a slight angle. 
 
 " One is really uncommonly obliged to Dirty Dick 
 for staying away," he told everybody. " Speaking 
 personally, the mere sight of him is very upsetting 
 to me. Keen as one feels about this match, one can't 
 deny that there is not room in a footer field for 
 Dirty Dick and a self-respecting person." 
 
 None the less, the absence of their house-master 
 had a bad effect upon the Torpids. Damer, you 
 may be sure, had come down, prepared to cheer 
 louder than any boy in his house; Damer, it was 
 whispered, had been known to shed tears when his 
 house suffered defeat; Damer, in fine, inspired ar- 
 dours — a passion of endeavour. 
 
 Scaife won the toss and kicked off. 
 
 For the first five minutes nothing of interest hap- 
 pened. Damer's played collectively; the Manorites 
 rather waited upon the Individual. When Scaife's 
 chance came, so it was predicted, he would go through 
 the Damer's centre as irresistibly as a Russian battle- 
 ship cuts through a fleet of fishing-smacks. 
 
 Rutford being absent, Dumbleton, the butler, 
 stood well to the fore. He never missed a house- 
 match, and no one could guess, looking at his wooden 
 countenance, how the game was going; for he ac- 
 cepted either defeat or victory with dignified self- 
 restraint. A smart bit of work provoked a bland, 
 *' Well played, sir, very well played, sir ! " uttered in 
 the same respectful tone in which he requested Lovell 
 
84 THE HILL 
 
 junior, let us say, to go to Mr. Rutford's study after 
 prayers. The fags believed that " Dumber," who 
 had begun his career as boot-boy at the Manor in the 
 glorious days of old, had given notice to leave when 
 he learned that Dirty Dick was about to assurne 
 command; but had been prevailed upon to stay by 
 the promise of an enormous salary. Nothing dis- 
 turbed his equanimity. On the previous Saturday 
 evening, John had heated the wrong end of the poker 
 in No. 15, knowing that Dumber's duty constrained 
 him to march round the House after " lights out," 
 to rake out any fires that might be still burning. 
 Snug under his counterpane, the practical joker 
 awaited, chuckling, a choleric word from the impas- 
 sive and impeccable butler. How did Dumber divine 
 that the poker was unduly hot and black with soot 
 underneath ? Who can answer that question ? The 
 fact remains that he seized John's best Sunday trou- 
 sers which were laid out on a chair, and holding the 
 poker with these, accomplished his task without re- 
 mark or smile. The trousers had to be sent to the 
 tailor's to be cleaned. 
 
 Not far from Dumber stood a group of small 
 boys, including the unhappy Fluff — ^unhappy because 
 he was not playing, despite arduous training (entirely 
 to please John) and systematic coaching. His fail- 
 ure meant further separation from John, whom, it 
 will be remembered, he would have been allowed to 
 call by his Christian name, had he been included 
 amongst the Torpids. Of late. Fluff had not seen 
 much of John, and in his dark hours he allowed his 
 
TORPIDS 85 
 
 thoughts to linger, not unpleasantly sometimes, upon 
 premature death and John's subsequent remorse. 
 
 Meantime, Scaife and Desmond were playing a 
 furious game which must have proved successful had 
 it not been for the admirable steadiness of the enemy. 
 Lawrence watched their efforts with compressed lips 
 and frowning brows. He knew — who better? — that 
 his cracks were tearing themselves to tatters ; but his 
 protests were drowned by the shrill cheers of the 
 fags. 
 
 " Rutfords — Rutfor-r-r-r-rds ! Go It, old Demon I 
 — Jolly well played, Casar ! — Sky him ! ^ — ^Well 
 skied, sir! — Ah-h-h-h! Well given — ^well taken I" 
 
 The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed 
 that " Yards " ^ had been given to Scaife right in 
 front of Damer's base. Damer's retreated; Scaife, 
 with heaving chest, balanced the big ball between the 
 tips of his fingers. 
 
 " Oh-h-h-h-h ! " 
 
 Scaife had missed an easy shot. Lawrence 
 could see that the boy was trembling with disap- 
 pointment and mortification. Barbed arrows from 
 Damer's small boys pierced Manorite hearts. 
 
 " Jolly well boshed, Scaife ! — Good, kind, old 
 Demon! — Thank you, Scaife — " and like derisive 
 approbation rolled from lip to lip. The Caterpillar 
 turned to Lovell. 
 
 1 To " sky," i.e. to charge and overthrow. 
 
 2 In the Harrow game a boy may turn and kick the ball into 
 the hands of one of his own side. The boy who catches it calls 
 " Yards ! " and, the opposite side withdrawing three yards, the 
 catcher is allowed a free kick. 
 
86 THE HILL 
 
 " Showing temper, ain't he? " 
 
 "Yes," said Lovell. 
 
 The game began again. But soon it became evi- 
 dent that Scaife had lost, not only his temper, but his 
 head. He rushed here and there with so little judg- 
 ment that the odds amongst the sporting fellows 
 went to six to four against the Manor. At the be- 
 ginning of the game, they were six to four the other 
 way. And, inevitably, Scaife's wild and furious ef- 
 forts unbalanced Desmond's play. Both boys were 
 out of their proper places to the confusion of the 
 rest of the team. Within half an hour, Damer's 
 had scored two bases to nothing. 
 
 The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. 
 Lawrence went up to Scaife. The captain of the 
 Torpids was standing apart, not far from Desmond, 
 who was sucking a lemon with a puzzled expression. 
 Gallant, sweet-tempered, and always hopeful, Caesar 
 could not understand his friend's passion of rage and 
 resentment. With the tact of his race, however, he 
 held aloof, smiling feebly, because he had sworn to 
 himself not to frown. Had he looked to his right, 
 he would have seen John, also sucking a lemon, but 
 understudying his idol's nonchalant attitude and 
 smile. 
 
 John was sensible of an overpowering desire 
 to fling himself upon the ground and howl. Instead 
 he sucked his lemon, stared at Desmond, and smiled 
 — ^valiantly. 
 
 " Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, " you're not 
 playing the game," 
 
TORPIDS 87 
 
 Scaife scowled. " I've half killed myself," he 
 muttered. 
 
 Lawrence continued in the same steady voice, 
 " Yes ; because you missed an easy base which has 
 happened to me and every other player scores of 
 times. Come here, Desmond." 
 
 Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face bright- 
 ened when he saw hopeful eyes and a gallant smile. 
 
 "You don't despair? " 
 
 " We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet." 
 
 " You've overdone it, both of you. Take my tip : 
 they'll play up like blazes. Defend your own base ; 
 and then when they're spent, trample on 'em." 
 
 " Thank you," said Desmond. 
 
 Scaife nodded sulkily. 
 
 None the less he had too great respect for Law- 
 rence's ability and experience as a captain to disregard 
 his advice. After the kick-off, Damer's did play up, 
 and the Manor had to defend its base against sus- 
 tained and fierce attack. Again and again a third 
 base was almost kicked, again and again superior 
 weight prevailed in the scrimmages. Within ten 
 minutes Damer's were gasping and weary. And 
 then, the ball was forced out of the scrimmage and 
 kicked to the top side, Desmond's place in the field. 
 Comparatively fresh, seeing the glorious opportunity, 
 grasping it, hugging it, Caesar swooped on the ball. 
 He had the heels of any boy on the opposite side. 
 Down the field he sped, faster and faster, amid the 
 roars of the School, roars which came to his ears like 
 the deep booming of breakers upon a lee shore. To 
 
88 THE HILL' 
 
 many of those watching him, the sight of that grace- 
 ful figure, that shining ardent face, revealing the 
 promise which youth and beauty always offer to a 
 delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. 
 Damer turned to the Head of his house. 
 
 " And Desmond ought to be one of us" he 
 groaned. 
 
 And now Caesar has passed all the forwards. If 
 he keeps his wits a base is certain. The full back 
 alone lies between him and triumph. But this is the 
 moment, the psychological moment, when one tiny 
 mistake will prove irrevocable. The Head of 
 Darner's whispers as much to Damer, who smiles 
 sadly. 
 
 " His father's son will not blunder now," he re- 
 plies. 
 
 Nor does he. The mistake — for mistake there 
 must be on one side or t'other — is made by Damer's 
 back. As the ball rolls halfway between them, the 
 back hesitates and falters. 
 
 One base to two — and eighteen minutes to play! 
 
 The second base was kicked by Scaife five minutes 
 later. 
 
 By this time, the School knew that they were look- 
 ing on at a cock-house match, not a semi-final. It 
 was the wealth of Dives against the widow's mite 
 that the winner of this match would defeat easily 
 either of the two remaining houses. And not a man 
 or boy on the ground could name with any conviction 
 the better eleven. The betting languished at evens. 
 
 Moreover, both sides were playing " canny," risk- 
 
TORPIDS 89 
 
 ing nothing, nursing their energies for the last furious 
 five minutes. Darner began to fidget; then he 
 dropped out of the front rank of spectators. He 
 couldn't stand still to see his boys win — or lose. He 
 paced up and down behind the fags, who winked at 
 each other. 
 
 " Darner's got the needle," they whispered. 
 
 Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image 
 of High Life below Stairs. 
 
 " What do you think. Dumber? " asked Fluff. 
 " I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, " that 
 every minute Improves our chance, but If it goes on 
 much longer," he added phlegmatically, " I shall fall 
 down dead. My 'cart's weak, my lord." 
 
 This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as 
 If It were brand-new, and received by the fags In a 
 like spirit. 
 
 " Bless you, you've got no heart. Dumber. It's 
 turned Into tummy long ago ! " or, in scathing ac- 
 cents, " It's not your heart that's out of whack. 
 Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What 
 a pity you can't buy a new one," and so on and so 
 forth. 
 
 Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excite- 
 ment began to shake the spectators. They felt it up 
 and down their spinal columns; It formed Itself Into 
 lumps in their throats; It gave one or two cramp In 
 the calves of their legs ; it reddened many cheeks and 
 whitened as many more. The Caterpillar pulled out 
 his watch. 
 
 " Three and a half minutes," he announced in a 
 
90 THE HILL 
 
 voice which fell like the crack of doom upon the silent 
 crowd. If they could have cheered or chaffed ! But 
 the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle 
 prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried 
 through a scrimmage, escaped to the right, slid out to 
 the left, only to be returned whence it came. It 
 seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and 
 when kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if 
 weighted by the ever-increasing burden of sus- 
 pense. 
 
 " Now — ^now's your chance ! " yelled the Manor- 
 ites. To their flaming senses the ball appeared to be 
 lying, a huge blurred sphere, upon the muddy grass ; 
 and the Elevens were stupidly staring at it. The 
 Saints be praised ! Some fellow can move. Who is 
 it? The players, big and little, are so daubed with 
 mud from head to foot as to be unrecognizable. 
 Ah-h-hl It's young Verney. 
 
 " Good kid I Well played — I say, well played, 
 well pla-a-a-a-yed ! " 
 
 Our John has, it seems, distinguished himself. 
 He has charged valiantly into the captain of Darner's 
 at the moment when that illustrious chief is about 
 to kick the ball to a trusted lieutenant on the left. 
 He succeeds in kicking the ball into John's face. 
 John goes over backwards; but the ball falls just in 
 front of the Duffer. 
 
 " Kick it, Duffer — ^kick it, you old ass ! " 
 
 The Duffer kicks it most accurately, kicks it well 
 out to the top side. Now, can Desmond repeat his 
 amazing performance? Yes — No — he can't. The 
 
TORPIDS 91 
 
 conditions are no longer the same. Half a dozen 
 fellows are between him and the Darner base. 
 
 Alas! The Manor is about to receive a second 
 object-lesson upon the fatuity of trusting to individ- 
 uals. Confident in Caesar's ability to take the ball 
 at least within kicking distance of the base, they have 
 rushed forward, leaving unguarded their own citadel. 
 Caesar, going too fast, misjudges the distance between 
 himself and the back. A second later the ball is 
 well on its way to the Manor base. The back awaits 
 it, coolly enough; knowing that Damer's forwards 
 are offside. Then he kicks the sodden, slippery ball 
 — hard. An exclamation of horror bursts from the 
 Manorites. Their back has kicked the ball straight 
 into the hands of the Damer captain, the steadiest 
 player on the ground. 
 
 " Yards! " 
 
 The chief collects himself for a decisive effort, and 
 then despatches the. ball straight and true for the 
 target. 
 
 It passed between the posts within forty-five sec- 
 onds of time. 
 
CHAPTER y 
 
 FELLOWSHIP 
 " Fellowship is Heaven, and the lack of it — Hell." 
 
 John was squelching through the mud, wondering 
 whether his nose was broken or not, when Lawrence 
 touched his shoulder. 
 
 "Never mind, Verney," he said cheerily; "the 
 Manor will be cock-house at Torpids next year, and 
 I venture to prophesy that you'll be Captain." 
 
 " Oh, thanks, Lawrence," said John. 
 
 But, much as he appreciated this tribute from the 
 great man and much as it served to mitigate the 
 pangs of defeat, a yet happier stroke of fortune was 
 about to befall him. Desmond, who always walked 
 up from the football field with Scaife, conferred upon 
 John the honour of his company. 
 
 " Where's Scaife? " said John. 
 
 " The Demon is demoniac," said Desmond. 
 " He's lost his hair, and he blames me. Well, I 
 did my best, and so did he, and there's no more to be 
 said. It's a bore that we shall be too old to play next 
 year. I told the Demon that if we had to be beaten, 
 I would sooner take a licking from Damer's than any 
 other house ; and he told me that he believed I wanted 
 'em to win. When a fellow's in that sort of blind 
 rage, I call him dotty, don't you? " 
 
 02 
 
FELLOWSHIP, 93 
 
 " Yes," said John. 
 
 " You played jolly well, Verney; I expect Law- 
 rence told you so." 
 
 " He did say something decent," John replied. 
 
 The Caterpillar joined them as they were passing 
 through the stile. 
 
 " We should have won," he said deliberately, " if 
 the Demon hadn't behaved like a rank outsider." 
 
 " Scaife is my pal," said Desmond, hotly. 
 
 The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders, and held 
 high his well-cut aquiline nose, as he murmured — 
 
 " One doesn't pretend to be a Christian, but as a 
 gentleman one accepts a bit of bad luck without 
 gnashing one's teeth. What? That Spartan boy 
 with the fox was a well bred 'un, you take my word 
 for it. Scaife isn't." 
 
 The Caterpillar joined another pair of boys before 
 Desmond could reply. John looked uncomfortable. 
 Then Desmond burst out with Irish vehemence — 
 
 " Egerton is always jawing about breeding. It's 
 rather snobbish. I don't think the worse of Scaife 
 because his grandfather carried a hod. The Egertons 
 have been living at Mount Egerton ever since they 
 left Mount Ararat, but what have they done? And 
 he ought to make allowances for the old Demon. 
 He was simply mad keen to win this match, and he 
 has a temper. You like him, Verney, don't you? " 
 
 John hesitated, realizing that to speak the truth 
 would offend the one fellow in the school whom he 
 wished to please and conciliate. Then he blurted 
 out — 
 
94 THE HILL 
 
 " No— I don't." 
 
 " You don't? " Desmond's frank blue eyes, Irish 
 eyes, deeply blue, with black lashes encircling them, 
 betrayed amazement and curiosity — so John thought 
 — rather than anger. " You don't? " he continued. 
 " Why not? The old Demon likes you ; he says you 
 got him out of a tight place. Why don't you like 
 him, Verney? " 
 
 John's mind had to speculate vaguely whether or 
 not Desmond knew the nature of the tight place — 
 tight was such a very descriptive adjective — out of 
 which he had pulled Scaife. Then he said ner- 
 vously — 
 
 " I don't like him because — because he likes — 
 you." 
 
 " Likes me? What a rum 'un you are, Verney. 
 Why shouldn't he like me? " 
 
 " Because," said John, boldly meeting the emer- 
 gency with the conviction that he had burnt his ships, , 
 and must advance without fear, " because he's not 
 half good enough for you." 
 
 Desmond burst out laughing; the clear ringing 
 laugh of his father, which had often allayed an in- 
 cipient mutiny below the gangway, and charmed 
 aside the impending disaster of a snatch-division. 
 And it is on one's own side in the House of Commons 
 that good temper tells pre-eminently. 
 
 " Not good enough for me," he repeated. 
 " Thanks awfully. Evidently you have a high 
 opinion of — me." 
 
 " Yes," said John. 
 
FELLOWSHIP 95 
 
 The quiet monosyllable, so soberly, so seriously 
 uttered, challenged Desmond's attention. He stared 
 for a moment at John's face — not an attractive ob- 
 ject. Blood and mud disfigured it. But the 
 grey eyes met the blue unwaveringly. Desmond 
 flushed. 
 
 " You've stuck me on a sort of pedestal." His 
 tone was as serious as John's. 
 
 " Yes," said John. 
 
 They were opposite the Music Schools. The 
 other Manorites had run on. For the moment they 
 stood alone, ten thousand leagues from Harrow, 
 alone in those sublimated spaces where soul meets soul 
 unfettered by flesh. Afterwards, not then, John 
 knew that this was so. He met the real Desmond 
 for the first time, and Desmond met the real John 
 in a thoroughfare other than that which leads to the 
 Manor, other than that which leads to any house 
 built by human hands, upon the shining highway of 
 Heaven. 
 
 Shall we try to set down Desmond's feelings at 
 this crisis? Till now, his life had run gaily through 
 fragrant gardens, so to speak: pleasaunces full of 
 flowers, of sweet-smelling herbs, of stately trees, a 
 paradise indeed from which the ugly, the crude, the 
 harmful had been rigorously excluded. Happy the 
 boy who has such a home as was allotted to Harry 
 Desmond ! And from it, ever since he could remem- 
 ber, he had received tender love, absolute trust, the 
 traditions of a great family whose name was part of 
 English history, an exquisite refinement, and, with 
 
96 THE HILL 
 
 these, the gratification of all reasonable desires. And 
 this magnificent upbringing shone out of his radiant 
 face, the inexpressible charm of youth unspotted — 
 white! Scaife's upbringing, of which you shall 
 know more presently, had been far different, and yet 
 he, the cynic and the unclean, recognized the good in 
 Harry Desmond. He had not, for instance, told 
 Desmond of' the nature of that "tight" place; he 
 had kept a guard over his tongue. It is true 
 that Scaife was well aware that without these pre- 
 cautions he would have lost his friend ; none the less, 
 above and beyond this consciousness hovered the 
 higher, more subtle intuition that the good in Des- 
 mond was something not lightly to be tampered with, 
 something awe-inspiring; the more so because, poor 
 fellow! he had never encountered it before. 
 
 Desmond stood still, with his eyes upon John's 
 discoloured face. Not the least of Caesar's charms 
 was his lack of self-consciousness. Now, for the 
 first time, he tried to see himself as John saw him — 
 on a pedestal. And so strong was John's ideal that 
 in a sense Desmond did catch a glimpe of himself as 
 John saw him. And then followed a rapid compari- 
 son, first between the real and the ideal, and sec- 
 ondly between himself and Scaife. His face broke 
 into a smile. 
 
 " Why, Verney," he exclaimed, " you mustn't turn 
 me Into a sort of Golden Calf. And as for Scaife 
 not being good enough for me, why, he's miles ahead 
 of me in everything. He's cleverer, better at games, 
 ten thousand times better looking," 
 
FELLOWSHIP 97 
 
 " He's not half good enough for you," repeated 
 John, with the Verney obstinacy. Unwittingly he 
 slightly emphasized the " good." 
 
 "Good? Do you mean 'pi'? He's not that, 
 thank the Lord! " 
 
 This made John laugh, and Desmond joined in. 
 Now they were Harrow boys again, within rheasur- 
 able distance of the Yard, although still in the shadow 
 of the Spire. The Demon described as "pi " tickled 
 their ribs. 
 
 " You must learn to like the Demon," Desmond 
 continued, as they moved on. Then, as John said 
 nothing, he added quickly, " He and I have made 
 up our minds not to try for a remove this term. 
 You see, next term is the j oiliest term of the year — 
 cricket and ' Ducker ' ^ and Lord's. And we shall 
 know the form's swat thoroughly, and have time to 
 enjoy ourselves. You'll be with us. Your remove 
 is a 'cert' — eh?" 
 
 John beamed. He had made certain that Caesar 
 would be in the Third Fifth next term and hopelessly 
 out of reach. 
 
 " Oh yes, I shall get my remove. So will the 
 Caterpillar." 
 
 " Hang the Caterpillar! " said Desmond. 
 
 "He'd ask for a silken rope, as Lord Ferrers 
 did," said John, with one of his unexpected touches 
 of humour. Again Desmond bent his head in the 
 gesture John knew so well, and laughed. 
 
 " I say Verney, you are a joker. Well, the old 
 
 1 " Duck-Puddle," is the school bathing-place. 
 
98 THE HILL 
 
 Caterpillar's a good sort, but he's not fair to Scaife. 
 Here we are ! " 
 
 They ran upstairs to " tosh " and change. John 
 found the Duffer just slipping out of his ducks. He 
 looked at John with a rueful grin. 
 
 " Are you going to chuck me? " he asked. 
 
 "Chuck you?" 
 
 " Fluff says you've chucked him. He was in here 
 a moment ago to ask if your nose was squashed. I 
 believe the silly little ass thinks you the greatest thing 
 on earth." 
 
 " I don't chuck anybody," said John, indignantly. 
 And he made a point of asking Fluff to walk with him 
 on Sunday. 
 
 After the Torpid matches the school settled down 
 to train (more or less) for the athletic sports. John 
 came to grief several times at Kenton brook, essay- 
 ing to jump it at places obviously — as the Duffer 
 pointed out — ^beyond his stride. The Duffer and he 
 put their names down for the house-handicaps, and 
 curtailed their visits to the Creameries. After this 
 self-denial it is humiliating to record that neither boy 
 succeeded in winning anything. Caesar won the 
 house mile handicap; Scaife won the under sixteen 
 School high jump — a triumph for the Manor; and 
 Fluff, the despised Fluff, actually secured an im- 
 mense tankard, which one of the Sixth offered as a 
 prize because he was quite convinced that his own 
 particular pal would win it. The distance happened 
 to be half a mile. Fluff was allowed an enormous 
 start, and won in a canter. 
 
FELLOWSHIP 99 
 
 The term came to an end soon after these achieve- 
 ments, and John spent a week of the holidays at 
 White Ladies, the Duke of Trent's Shropshire place. 
 Here, for the first time, he saw that august and 
 solemn personage, a Groom of the Chambers, with 
 carefully-trimmed whiskers, a white tie, a silky voice, 
 and the appearance of an archdeacon. This visit is 
 recorded because it made a profound impression upon 
 a plastic mind. John had never sat in the seats of 
 the mighty. Verney Boscobel was a delightful old 
 house, but it might have been put, stables and all, 
 into White Ladies, and never found again. Fluff 
 showed John the famous Reynolds and Gainsborough 
 portraits, the Van Dycks and Lelys, the Romneys 
 and Richmonds. Fair women and brave men smiled 
 or frowned at our hero wherever he turned his won- 
 dering eyes. After the first tour of the great gal- 
 leries, he turned to his companion. 
 
 " I say," he whispered solemnly, " some of 
 'em look as if they didn't like my calling you — 
 Fluff." 
 
 " I wish you'd call me Esme." 
 
 "All right," said John, "I will; and— er— al- 
 though you didn't get into the Torpids, you can call 
 me — -John." 
 
 " Oh, John, thanks awfully." 
 
 Ponies were provided for the boys to ride, and 
 they shot rabbits in the Chase. Also, they appeared 
 at dinner, a tremendous function, and were encour- 
 aged by some of the younger guests to spar (verbally, 
 of course) with the duke's Etonian sons. Fluff 
 
100 THE HILL 
 
 looked so much stronger and happier that his par- 
 ents, delighted with their experiment, were Inclined 
 to cry up the Hill, much to the exasperation of the 
 dwellers In the Plain. 
 
 When he left White Ladles John had learned one 
 valuable lesson. His sense of that hackneyed 
 phrase, noblesse oblige, the sense which remains non- 
 sense with so many boys (old and young), had been 
 quickened. Little more than a child In many ways, 
 he realized, as a man does, the true significance of 
 rank and wealth. The Duke of Trent had married 
 a pleasure-loving dame ; White Ladies was essentially 
 a pleasure-house, to which came gladly enough the 
 wit and beauty of the kingdom. And yet the duke, 
 not clever as compared to his guests, not even good- 
 looking as compared to the spendid gentlemen whom 
 Van Dyck and Lely had painted, undistinguished, In 
 fine. In everything save rank and wealth, worked, 
 early and late, harder than any labourer upon his 
 vast domain. And when John said to Fluff, " I say, 
 Esme, why does the duke work so beastly hard? " 
 Fluff replied with emphasis, " Why, because he has 
 to, you know. It's no joke to be bom a duke, and 
 I'm jolly glad that I'm a younger son. Father says 
 that he has no amusements, but plenty of occupation. 
 Mother says he's the unpaid land-agent of the Trent 
 property." 
 
 John went back to Verney Boscobel, and repeated 
 what Fluff had said, as his own. 
 
 " It was simply spendid, mum, like a sort of castle 
 In fairyland and all that, but I am glad I'm not a 
 
FELLOWSHIP, iioi 
 
 duke. And I expect that even an earl has a lot of 
 beastly jobs to do which never bother us." 
 
 " Oh, you've found that out, have you, John? 
 Well, I hesitated when the invitation came; but I'm 
 glad now that you went." 
 
 *' Yes; and it's ripping to be home again." 
 
 The summer term began in glorious sunshine ; and 
 John forgot that he owned an umbrella. The Cater- 
 pillar and he had achieved their remove, but the un- 
 happy Duffer was left behind alone with the hideous 
 necessity of doing his form's work by himself. The 
 boys occupied the same rooms, but John prepared his 
 Greek and Latin with Scaife, Cassar, and the Cater- 
 pillar: whom he was now privileged to call by their 
 nick-names. They began to call him John, hearing 
 young KInloch do so ; and then one day, Scaife, look- 
 ing up with his derisive smile, said — 
 
 " I'm going to call you Jonathan." 
 
 " Good," said Desmond. " All the same, we 
 can't call either the Duffer or Fluff — David, can 
 we?" 
 
 " I was not thinking of KInloch or Duff," said 
 Scaife, staring hard at John. And John alone knew 
 that Scaife read him like a book, in which he was 
 contemptuously amused — ^nothing more. After that, 
 as if Scaife's will were law, the others called John — 
 Jonathan. 
 
 Very soon, the sun was obscured by ever-thicken- 
 ing clouds. John happened to provoke the antipathy 
 of a lout in his form known as Lubber Sprott. Sprott 
 
I02 iTHE HILL 
 
 began to persecute him with a series of petty insults 
 and injuries. He accused him of " sucking up " to 
 a lord, of putting on " lift " because he was the young- 
 est boy in the Upper Remove, of kow-towing to the 
 masters — and so forth. Then, finding these repeated 
 gibes growing stale, he resorted to meaner methods. 
 He upset ink on John's books, or kicked them from 
 -under his arm as he was going up to the New Schools. 
 He put a " dringer " ^ into the pocket of John's 
 " bluer." 2 He pinched him unmercifully if he found 
 himself next to John in form, knowing that John 
 would not betray him. When occasion offered he 
 kicked John. In short, he was successful in taking 
 all the fun and sparkle out of the merrle month of 
 May. 
 
 Finally, Caesar got an inkling of what was go- 
 ing on. 
 
 " Is Sprott ragging you? " he asked point-blank, 
 
 " Ye-es," said John, blushing. " It's n-nothing," 
 he added nervously. "He'll get tired of it, I ex- 
 pect." 
 
 " I saw him kick you," said Desmond, frowning. 
 " Now, look here, Jonathan, you kick him ; kick him 
 as hard as ever you can where, where he kicks you — 
 
 lA "Dringer" is composed of the following ingredients: a 
 layer of strawberries is secreted in sugar and cream at the bottom 
 of a clean jam-pot; and this receives a decent covering of straw- 
 berry ice, which brings the surface of the dringer and the top edge 
 of the jam-pot into the same plane. The whole may be bought for 
 sixpence. (P. T., 1905.) 
 
 2 A "Bluer " is the blue-flannel jacket worn in the playing 
 fields. It must be worn buttoned by boys who have been less than 
 two years in the school. 
 
FELLOWSHIP !io3 
 
 eh? And do it to-morrow in the Yard, at nine Bill, 
 when everybody is looking on. You can dodge into 
 the crowd; but if I were you I'd kick him at the very 
 moment he gets into line, and then he can't pursue. 
 And if he does pursue — which I'll bet you a bob he 
 don't, he'll have to tackle you and me." 
 
 " I'll do it," said John. 
 
 Next day, a whole holiday, at nine Bill, both 
 Caesar and John were standing close to the window 
 of Custos' den, waiting for Lubber Sprott to appear. 
 While waiting, an incident occurred which must be 
 duly chronicled inasmuch as it has direct bearing upon 
 this story. Only the week before Rutford had come up 
 to the Yard late for Bill, he being the master whose 
 turn it was to call over. Such tardiness, which hap- 
 pens seldom, Is reckoned as an unpardonable sin by 
 Harrow boys. Briefly It means that six hundred suf- 
 fer from the unpunctuallty of one. Therefore, when 
 Rutford appeared, slightly flushed of countenance 
 and visibly annoyed, the School emphasized their dis- 
 pleasure by derisive cheers. Rutford, ever tactless 
 where boys were concerned, was unwise enough to 
 make a speech from the steps condemning, in his 
 usual bombastic style, a demonstration which he ought 
 to have known he was quite powerless to punish 
 or to prevent. When he had finished, the School 
 cheered more derisively than before. After Bill, he 
 left the Yard, purple with rage and humiliation. 
 
 Upon this particular morning, one of the younger 
 masters, Basil Warde, was calling Bill. The School 
 knew little of Warde, save that he was an Old Har- 
 
I04 THE HILL 
 
 rovian in charge of a Small House, and that his form 
 reported him — queer. He had Instituted a queer 
 system of punishments, he made queer remarks, he 
 looked queer : in fine, he was generally regarded as a 
 radical, and therefore a person to be watched with 
 suspicion by boys who, as a body, are intensely con- 
 servative. He was of a clear red complexion with 
 lapis-lazuli blue eyes, that peculiar blue which is the 
 colour of the sea on a bright stormy day. The 
 Upper School knew that, as a member of the Alpine 
 Club, Warde had conquered half a dozen hitherto 
 unconquerable peaks. He was very tall and thin. 
 
 Into the Yard and into this book Warde comes 
 late. As he hurried to his place, the School greeted 
 him as they had greeted Rutford only the week be- 
 fore. If anything, the demonstration was slightly 
 more hostile. That Bill should be delayed twice 
 within ten days was unheard-of and outrageous. 
 When the hoots and cheers subsided, Warde held up 
 his hand. He smiled, and his chin stuck out, and his 
 nose stuck up at an angle familiar to those who had 
 scaled peaks in his company. In silence, the School 
 awaited what he had to say, hoping that he might 
 slate them, which would afford an excuse for more 
 ragging. Warde, guessing, perhaps, the wish of the 
 crowd, smiled more genially than before. Then, in 
 a loud clear voice, he said — 
 
 " I beg pardon for being late. And I thank you 
 for cheering me. I haven't been cheered in the Yard 
 since the afternoon when I got my Flannels." 
 
 A deafening roar of applause broke from the boys. 
 
FELLOWSHIP iio5 
 
 Warde might be queer, but he was a good sort, and, 
 henceforward, popular with Harrovians. 
 
 He began to call over as Lubber Sprott neared 
 the place where Desmond and John awaited him. 
 The Lubber took up his position near the boys, turn- 
 ing a broad back to them. He stood with his hands 
 in his pockets, talking to another boy as big and 
 as stupid as himself. The Lubber, it may be added, 
 ought to have worn " Charity " tails, but he had not 
 applied for permission to do so. He was fat and 
 gross rather than tall, and certainly too large for his 
 clothes. 
 
 " Now," said Caesar. 
 
 John measured the distance with his eye, as Caesar 
 thoughtfully nudged other members of the Upper 
 Remove. John had room for a very short run. The 
 Lubber was swaying backwards and forwards. John 
 timed his kick, which for a small boy he delivered 
 with surprising force, so accurately that the Lubber 
 fell on his face. The boys looking on screamed with 
 laughter. The Lubber, picking himself up (John 
 dodged into the crowd, who received him joyfully) 
 and glaring round, encountered the contemptuous 
 face of Desmond. 
 
 " Let me have a shot," said Caesar. 
 
 The Lubber advanced, spluttering with rage. 
 
 " Where is he — where is he, that infernal young 
 Verney?" 
 
 By this time fifty boys at least were interested 
 spectators of the scene. Desmond stood square in 
 the Lubber's path. 
 
io6 THE HILH 
 
 " You like to kick small boys," said Caesar, in a 
 very loud voice. " I'm small, half your size, why 
 don't you kick me? " 
 
 The Lubber could have crushed the speaker by 
 mere weight; but he hesitated, and the harder he 
 stared at Desmond the less he fancied the job of 
 kicking him. Quality confronted quantity. 
 
 " Kick me," said Desmond, " if — if you dare, you 
 big, hulking coward and cad ! " 
 
 " Come on, Lubber, get into line ! " shouted some 
 boy. 
 
 Sprott turned slowly, glancing over his vast, fat 
 shoulder to guard against further assault. Then he 
 took his place in the line, and passed slowly out of 
 the Yard and out of these pages. He never perse^ 
 cuted John again.* 
 
 Not yet, however, was the sun to shine in John's 
 firmament. As the days lengthened, as June touched 
 all hearts with her magic fingers, insensibly relaxing 
 the tissues and warming the senses, John became more 
 and more miserably aware that, in the fight between 
 Scaife and himself for the possession of Desmond, 
 the odds were stupendously against him. Truly the 
 Demon had the subtlety of the serpent, for he used 
 the failings which he was unable to hide as cords 
 wherewith to bind his friend more closely to him. 
 When the facts, for instance, of what had taken place 
 in Lovell's room came to Desmond's ears, he denied 
 fiercely the possibility of Scaife, his pal, making a 
 
 1 Small boys are not advised to copy John's tactics. The victory 
 is not always to the weak. 
 
FELLOWSHIP 107 
 
 " beast " of himself. The laughter which greeted 
 his passionate protest sent him hot-foot to Scalfe 
 himself. 
 
 " They say," panted Cssar, " that last winter you 
 were dead drunk in Lovell's room. I told the beasts 
 they lied." 
 
 Scaife's handsome face softened. Was he touched 
 by Csesar's loyalty? Who can tell? Always he 
 subordinated emotion to Intelligence: head com- 
 manded heart. 
 
 " Perhaps they did," he answered steadily, " and 
 perhaps they didn't. I deny nothing; I admit noth- 
 ing. But " — his fine eyes, so dark and piercing, 
 flamed — " If, Ceesar, I was dead drunk at your feet 
 now, would you turn away from me, would you 
 chuck me ? " 
 
 Desmond winced. Scalfe pursued his advantage. 
 
 " If you are that sort of a fellow — the Pharisee " 
 — Desmond winced again — " the saint who is too 
 pure, too holy, to associate with a sinner, say so, 
 and let us part here — and now. For I am a — sinner. 
 lYou are not a sinner. Hold hard ! let me have my 
 say. I've always known that this moment was coming. 
 Yes, I am a sinner, And my governor Is a sinner, 
 a hardened sinner. His father made our pile by what 
 you would call robbery. The whole world knows It, 
 and condones it, because we are so rich. Even my 
 mother " 
 
 He paused, trembling, white to the lips. 
 
 " Don't," said Desmond. " Please don't! " 
 
 " You're right. I won't. But I'm handicapped 
 
io8 THE HILL 
 
 on both sides. It's only fair that you should know 
 what sort of a fellow you've chosen for a pal. And 
 it's not too late to chuck me. Rutford will put Verney 
 in here, if I ask him. And, by God ! I'm in the mood 
 to ask him now. Shall I go to him, Desmond, or 
 shall I stay?" 
 
 He had never raised his voice, but it fell upon 
 the sensitive soul of the boy facing him as if it were 
 a clarion-call to battle. 
 
 Desmond sprang forward, ardent, eager, afire with 
 generous self-surrender. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he cried. " Oh, forgive me, be- 
 cause I can't forgive myself ! " 
 
 After this breaking of barriers, Scaife took less 
 pains to disguise a nature which turned as instinc- 
 tively to darkness as Desmond's to light. A score 
 of times protest died when Scaife murmured, " There 
 I go again, forgetting the gulf between us ; " and 
 always Desmond swore stoutly that the gulf, if a gulf 
 did yawn between them, should be bridged by friend- 
 ship and hope. But, insensibly, Caesar's ideals be- 
 came tainted by Scaife's materialism. Scaife, for 
 instance, spent money lavishly upon " food " and 
 clothes. So far as a Public School boy is able, he 
 never denied his splendid young body anything it 
 coveted. Desmond, too proud to receive favours 
 without returning them, tried to vie with this reck- 
 less spendthrift, and found himself in debt. In other 
 ways a keen eye and ear would have marked deterior- 
 ation. John noticed that Caesar laughed, although 
 he never sneered, at things he used to hold sacred; 
 
FELLOWSHIP 109 
 
 that he condemned, as Scaife did, whatever that 
 clever young reprobate was pleased to stigmatize as 
 narrow-minded or intolerant. 
 
 Cricket, however, kept them fairly straight. Each 
 was certain to get his " cap," ^ if, as Lawrence told 
 them, they stuck to the rigour of the game. This 
 was Lawrence's last term. He had stayed on to play 
 at Lord's, and when he left Trieve would become the 
 Head of the House — a prospect very pleasing to 
 the turbulent Fifth. 
 
 About the middle of June John suffered a parlous 
 blow. He was never so happy as when he 
 was sitting in Scaife's room, cheek by jowl with 
 Desmond, sharing, perhaps, a " dringer," poring 
 over the same dictionary. This delightful intimacy 
 came to a sudden end in this wise. The form-master 
 of the Upper Remove happened to be a precisian in 
 English. A sure road to his favour was the right 
 use of a word. ■ The Demon, appreciating this, 
 bought a dictionary of synonyms, and made a point 
 of discarding the commonplace and obvious, substi- 
 tuting a phrase likely to elicit praise and marks. 
 Desmond and John joined in this hunt of the right 
 word with enthusiasm. 
 
 One evening the four boys encountered the simple 
 sentence — " majoris pretii quam quod astimari 
 possit." 
 
 " * Priceless ' '11 cover .that," said Cassar. 
 
 " Or ' inest^«nable,' " said the Demon. 
 
 1 The house-cap, only given to members of ths house Crlckst 
 Eleven. 
 
no THE HILL 
 
 The three other boys stared at the Demon, and 
 then at each other. The Caterpillar, something of 
 a purist in his way, drawled out — 
 
 " One pronounces that ' inestimable.' " 
 
 " My father doesn't," said Scaife, 'hotly. " I've 
 heard him say ' inesteemable.' " 
 
 " No doubt," said Egerton, coldly. " How does 
 your father pronounce it, Caesar? " 
 
 Desmond said hurriedly, "Oh, 'inestimable;' 
 but what does it matter? " 
 
 The Demon sprang up, furious. " It matters 
 
 this," he cried. " I'm d d if I'll have Egerton 
 
 sitting in my room sneering at my governor. After 
 this he'll do his work in his own room, or I'll do mine 
 in the passage." 
 
 Before Desmond could speak, Scaife had whirled 
 out of the room, slamming the door. John looked 
 stupefied with dismay. 
 
 The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders. Then he 
 said slowly — 
 
 " Scaife's father pronounces ' connoisseur ' ' con- 
 noysure,' and so does Scaife." 
 
 Desmond stood up, flushed and distressed, but 
 emphatic. 
 
 " Scaife is right about one thing," he said. " He 
 won't sit here like a cad and listen to Egerton sneer- 
 ing at his father. I'm very sorry, but after this we'd 
 better split up. Verney and you, Egerton ; and Scaife 
 and I." 
 
 " Certainly," said the Caterpillar, rising In his 
 turn. 
 
FELLOWSHIP II 1 1 
 
 Poor John cast a distracted and imploring glance 
 at Desmond, which flashed by unheeded. Then he 
 got up, and followed the Caterpillar out of the room. 
 The passage was empty. 
 
 The Caterpillar sniffed as if the atmosphere in 
 Scaife's room had been polluted. 
 
 " One has nothing to regret," he remarked. 
 " Scaife has good points, and — er — bad. You've 
 noticed his hands — eh? Very unfinished 1 And his 
 foot — short, but broad." The Caterpillar sur^ 
 veyed his long, slender feet with infinite satisfaction ; 
 then he added, with an accent of finality, " Scaife 
 talks about going into the Grenadiers; but they'll 
 give him a hot time there, a very hot time. One is 
 really sorry for the poor fellow, because, of course, 
 he can't help being a bounder. What does puzzle 
 me is, why did Cssar want such a fellow for his 
 pal?" 
 
 " But he didn't," said John. 
 
 "Eh?— what?" 
 
 " Scaife wanted Cssar," John explained. " And 
 Fve noticed, Caterpillar, that whatever Scaife wants 
 he gets." 
 
 " He wants breeding, Jonathan, but he'll never get 
 that — never! " 
 
 After this, John saw but little of Desmond; and 
 Scaife hardly spoke to him. Accordingly, much of 
 our hero's time was spent in the company of the 
 Duffer and Fluff. The three passed many delightful 
 hours together at " Ducker." Armed with buns and 
 chocolate, they would rush down the hill, bathe, lie 
 
112 THE HILL 
 
 about on the grass, eat the buns, and chaff the kids 
 who were learning to swim. 
 
 "Long, long in the misty hereafter 
 Shall echo in ears far away, 
 The lilt of that innocent laughter, 
 The splash of the spray." 
 
 During the School matches they spent the after- 
 noons on the Sixth Form ground, carefully criticiz- 
 ing every stroke. The theory of the game lay pat 
 to the tongue, but in practice John was a shocking 
 bungler. At his small preparatory school in the 
 New Forest, he had not been taught the elementary 
 principles of either racquets or cricket; but he had 
 a good eye, played a capital game of golf, rode and 
 shot well for a small boy. Fluff, although still deli- 
 cate, gave promise of being a cricketer as good, 
 possibly, as his brothers, when he became stronger. 
 
 Upon Speech Day John's mother and uncle came 
 down to Harrow, and you may be sure that John 
 escorted them in triumph to the Manor. Mrs. Ver- 
 ney has since confessed that John's expression as she 
 greeted him surprised and distressed her. He looked 
 quite unhappy. And the dear woman, thinking that 
 he must be in debt, seriously considered the propriety 
 of tipping him handsomely in advance. A moment 
 later, as she slipped out of an old and shabby dust- 
 cloak, revealing the splendours of a dress fresh from 
 Paris, she divined from John's now radiant face what 
 had troubled him. 
 
FELLOWSHIP 113 
 
 " John," she said, " you didn't really think that I 
 was going to shame you by wearing this dreadful 
 cloak — did you? " 
 
 "I wasn't quite sure," John answered; then he 
 burst out, " Mum, you look simply lovely. All the 
 fellows will take you for my sister." 
 
 And after the great function in Speech-room came 
 the cheering. How John's heart throbbed when the 
 Head of the School, standing just outside the door, 
 proclaimed the illustrious name — 
 
 " Three cheers for Mr. John Verneyl " 
 
 And how the boys in the road below cheered, as 
 the little man descended the steps, hat in hand, bow- 
 ing and blushing. Everybody knew that he was on 
 the eve of departure for further explorations in 
 Manchuria. He would be absent, so the papers said, 
 three years at least. The School cheered the louder, 
 because each boy knew that they might never see that 
 gallant face again. 
 
 Later in the afternoon a selection of Harr6w 
 songs was given in the Speech-room. " Five Hun- 
 dred Faces," as usual, was sung by a new boy, who is 
 answered, in chorus, by the whole school. How John 
 recalled his own feelings, less than a year ago, as 
 he stood shivering upon the bank of the river, funk- 
 ing the first plunge. And his uncle, now sitting 
 beside him, had said that he would soon enjoy him- 
 self amazingly — and so he had. The new boy began 
 the second verse. His voice, not a strong one, 
 jjuavered shrilly — 
 
114 THE HILL' 
 
 "A quarter to seven! There goes the belli 
 The sleet is driving against the pane; 
 But woe to the sluggard who turns again 
 And sleeps, not wisely, but all too well I " 
 
 In reply to the weak, timid notes came the glad 
 roar of the School — 
 
 " Yet the time may come, as the years go by, 
 When your heart will thrill 
 At the thought of the Hill, 
 And the pitiless bell, with its piercing cry ! " 
 
 Ah, that pitiless bell! And yet because of it one 
 wallowed in Sunday and whole-holiday " frowsts." ^ 
 John, you see, had the makings of a philosopher. 
 And now the Eleven were grunting " Willow the 
 King." And when the last echo of the chorus died 
 away in the great room, Uncle John whispered to 
 his nephew that he had heard Harrow songs in every 
 corner of the earth, and that convincing proof of 
 merit shone out of the fact that their charm waxed 
 rather than waned with the years; they improved, 
 like wine, with age. 
 
 Caesar's father came down with the Duke of Trent. 
 The duke tipped John magnificently and asked him 
 to spend his exeat at Trent House, and to witness 
 the Eton and Harrow match at Lord's from the 
 Trent coach. John accepted gratefully enough; but 
 his heart was sore because, just before the row over 
 
 1 Lying in bed in the morning when there is no First School 
 is a " frowst." By a subtle law of association, an armchair it 
 also a " frowst." 
 
FELLOWSHIP 115 
 
 that infernal word " inestimable," Caesar had asked 
 John if he would like to occupy an attic in Eaton 
 Square. After the row nothing more was said about 
 the attic ; but John would have preferred bare boards 
 in Eaton Square to a tapestried chamber in Park 
 Lane. 
 
 Now, during the whole of this summer term there 
 was much animated discussion in regard to the rival 
 claims of lines or spots upon the white waistcoat worn 
 by all self-respecting Harrovians at Lord's. Upon 
 this important subject John had betrayed scandalous 
 indifference. Accordingly, just before the match, the 
 Caterpillar took him aside and spoke a solemn word. 
 
 "Look here," he said; "one doesn't as a rule 
 make personal remarks, but it's rather too obvious 
 that you buy your clothes in Lyndhurst., I was sorry 
 to see that the Duke of Trent was the worst-dressed 
 man at Speecher; but a duke can look like a tinker, 
 and nobody cares." 
 
 " Fd be awfully obliged if you'd tell me what's 
 wrong," said John, humbly. 
 
 " Everything's wrong," said the Caterpillar, de- 
 cisively. He looked critically at John's boots. 
 " Your boots, for instance — most excellent boots for 
 wading through the swamps in the New Forest, but 
 quite impossible in town. And the ' topper ' you 
 wear on Sunday! Southampton, you say? Ah, I 
 thought it was a Verney heir-loom. Now, it wouldn't 
 surprise me to hear that your mother, who dresses 
 herself quite charmingly, bought your kit." 
 
 " She did," John confessed. 
 
ii6 THE HILL 
 
 " Just so. One need say no more. Now, you 
 come along with me." 
 
 They marched down the High Street to the most 
 fashionable of the School tailors, where John was 
 measured for an Eton jacket of the best, white waist- 
 coat with blue spots, light bags ; while the Caterpillar 
 selected a new " topper," an umbrella, a pair of 
 gloves, and a tie. 
 
 " Be very careful about the bags," said the Cater- 
 pillar. " They are cutting 'em ip town a trifle 
 tighter about the lower leg, but loose above. You 
 understand? " 
 
 " Perfectly, Mr. Egerton," replied the obsequious 
 snip. " What we call the ' tighto-looso ' style, sir." 
 
 " I don't think they call it that in Savile Row," 
 said the Caterpillar; " but be careful." 
 
 The tailor was assured that he would receive an 
 order properly signed by Mr. Rutford. And then 
 John was led to the bootmaker's, and there measured 
 for his first pair of patent-leathers. The Caterpillar 
 was so exhausted by these labours that a protracted 
 visit to the Creameries became imperative. 
 
 " You've always looked like a gentleman," said 
 the Caterpillar, after his " dringer," " and It's a 
 comfort to me to think that now you'll be dressed 
 like one." 
 
 So John went up to town looking very smart in- 
 deed; and Fluff (who had ordered a similar kit) 
 whispered to John at luncheon that his brothers, the 
 Etonians, had expressed surprise at the change for 
 the better in their general appearance. 
 
FELLOWSHIP .117 
 
 This luncheon was eaten on the top of the duke's 
 coach, and it happened that the next coach but one 
 belonged to Scaife's father. John could just see 
 Scaife's handsome head, and Caesar sitting beside 
 him. The boys nodded to each other, and the Eton- 
 ians asked questions. At the name of Scaife, how- 
 ever, the young Kinlochs curled contemptuous lips. 
 
 "Unspeakable bounder, old Scaife, isn't he?" 
 they asked; and the duchess replied — 
 
 " My dears, his cheques are honoured to any 
 amount, even if he isn't." 
 
 Her laughter tinkled delightfully; but John re- 
 flected that Desmond was eating the Scaife food and 
 drinking the Scaife wine — all bought with ill-gotten 
 gold. 
 
 Later in the afternoon it became evident that the 
 Scaife champagne was flowing freely. To John's 
 dismay, the Harrovians (including Caesar) on the 
 top of the Scaife coach became noisy. The Cater- 
 pillar and his father, Colonel Egerton, sauntered up, 
 and were invited by the duke to rest and refresh them- 
 selves. John was amused to note that the colonel 
 was even a greater buck than his son. He quite 
 cut out the poor old Caterpillar, challenging and 
 monopolizing the attention of all who beheld him. 
 
 " Those boys are makin' the devil of a row," said 
 the colonel, fixing his eyeglass. " Ah, the Scaifes I 
 A man I know dined with them last week. He re- 
 ported everything overdone, except the food. Their 
 chef is Marcobruno, you know." 
 
 Presently, to John's relief, Desmond left the 
 
ii8 THE HILU 
 
 Scaifes and joined the Trent party, upon whom his 
 gay, radiant face and charming manners made a most 
 favourable impression. He laughed at the duchess's 
 stories, and made love to her quite unaffectedly. The 
 Etonians looked rather glum, because their wickets 
 were falling faster than had been expected. Des- 
 mond told the duke, in answer to a question, that 
 his father was in his seat in the pavilion, with his 
 eyes glued to the pitch. 
 
 " He's awfully keen," said Caesar. 
 
 " You boys are not so keen as we were," said the 
 duke, nodding reflectively. 
 
 " Oh, but we are, sir — indeed we are," said Caesar. 
 " Aren't we. Caterpillar? " 
 
 The Caterpillar replied, thoughtfully, " One bot- 
 tles up that sort of thing, I suppose." 
 
 " Ah," said the duke, kindly, " if it is the right 
 sort of thing, it's none the worse for being bot- 
 tled up." 
 
 The boys went to the play that night and enjoyed 
 themselves hugely. Next day, however, the match 
 proved a draw. John was standing on the top of 
 the coach, very disconsolate, when he saw Desmond 
 beckoning to him from below. The expression on 
 Caesar's face puzzled him. 
 
 "How can you pal up with those Etonians?" 
 whispered Cassar, after John had descended. 
 " Every Eton face I see now I want to hit." Then 
 he added, with a smile and a chuckle, " I say, there's 
 going to be a ruction in front of the Pavvy. Come 
 on!" 
 
FELLOWSHIP 119 
 
 A minute later John was in the thick of a very 
 pretty scrimmage between the Hill and the Plain. 
 Hats were bashed in; cornflowers torn from but- 
 tonholes; pale-blue tassels were captured; umbrellas 
 broken. Finally, the police interfered. 
 
 " Short, but very, very sweet," said Caesar, 
 panting. 
 
 John and he were lamentable objects for fond 
 parents to behold, but the sense of depression had 
 vanished. And then Caesar said suddenly — 
 
 " By Jove ! I have got a bit of news I It quite 
 takes the sting out of this draw." 
 
 "What's happened?" 
 
 " My governor has been talking with Warde. 
 Rutford is leaving Harrow." 
 
 John gasped. " That is ripping." 
 
 " Isn't it? But who do you think is coming to 
 us? Why, Warde himself. He was at the Manor 
 when it was the house, and the governor says that 
 Warde will make it the house again. He's got his 
 work cut out for him — eh? " 
 
 " You bet your life," said John. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 A REVELATION 
 
 "Forty years on, when afar and asunder, 
 
 Parted are those who are singing to-day, 
 When you look back, and forgetfully wonder 
 
 What you were like in your work and your play; 
 Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you 
 
 Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song, — 
 Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, 
 
 Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along." 
 
 Before the end of the summer term, both Desmond 
 and Scaife received their " caps " and a word of 
 advice from Lawrence. 
 
 " There are going to be changes here," said he ; 
 " and I wish I could see 'em, and help to bring 'em 
 about. Now, I'm not given to buttering fellows up, 
 but I see plainly that the rebuilding of this house 
 depends a lot upon you two. Don't speak ! It's not 
 likely that you're able to measure your influence; If 
 you could, there wouldn't be much to measure. But 
 take it from me, not a word, not an action of yours 
 is without weight with the lower boys. Everything 
 helps or hinders. Next term there will be war-^to 
 the knife — ^between Warde and some fellows I 
 needn't name, and Warde will win. Remember I 
 said so. I hope you," he looked hard at Desmond, 
 " will fight on the right side." 
 
 The boys returned to their room, jubilant because 
 
A REVELATION 121 
 
 the house-cap was theirs, but uneasy because of the 
 words given with it. As soon as they were alone, 
 Scaife said sullenly-—^ 
 
 " Does Lawrence expect us to stand in with Warde 
 against Lovell and his pals? If he does, he's jolly 
 well mistaken, as far as I'm concerned." 
 
 Desmond flushed. He had spent nearly five terms 
 at Harrow, but only two at the Manor. Of what 
 had been done or left undone by certain fellows in 
 the Fifth he was still in twilight ignorance. He dis- 
 cerned shadows, nothing more, and, boylike, he ran 
 from shadows into the sunlight. Desmond knew 
 that there were beasts at the Manor. Had you 
 forced from him an expression approaching, let us 
 say, definiteness, he would have admitted that beasts 
 lurked in every houSe, in every school in the king- 
 dom. You must keep out of their way (and ways) 
 — that was all. And he knew also that too many 
 beasts wreck a house, as they wreck a regiment or a 
 nation. , 
 
 But once or twice within the past few months he 
 had suspected that his cut-and-dried views on good 
 and evil were not shared by Scaife. Scaife confessed 
 to Desmond that the Old Adam was strong in him. 
 He liked, craved for, the excitement of breaking the 
 law. Hitherto, this breaking of the law had been 
 confined to such offenses as smoking or drinking a 
 glass of beer at a " pub," ^ or using cribs, or, gener- 
 ally speaking, setting at naught authority. That 
 Scaife had escaped severe punishment was due to his 
 keen wits. 
 
 1 All " public houses " are out of bounds. 
 
122 THE HILL 
 
 Now, when Scaife gave Desmond the unexpur- 
 gated history of the row which so nearly resulted in 
 the expulsion of six boys, Desmond had asked a ques- 
 tion — 
 
 " Do you like whisky? I loathe it." 
 
 Scaife laughed before he answered. Doubtless 
 one reason why he exacted interest and admiration 
 from Desmond lay In a rare (rare at fifteen) ability 
 to analyse his own and others' actions. 
 
 " I loathe it too," he admitted. " Really, you 
 know, we drank precious little, because It is such 
 beastly stuff. But I liked, we all liked, to believe 
 that we were doing the correct thing — eh? And it 
 warmed us up. Just a taste made the Caterpillar 
 awfully funny." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "Do you see? I doubt It, Caesar. Perhaps I shall 
 horrify you when I tell you that vice interests me. 
 I used to buy the Police News when I was a kid, 
 and simply wallow in it. I told a woman that last 
 Easter, and she laughed — she was as clever as they 
 make 'em — and said that T suffered from what the 
 French call the homesickness for the gutter. Rather 
 personal, but dev'llsh sharp, wasn't it? '•' 
 
 " I think she was a beast." 
 
 " Not she, she's a sort of cousin; she came from 
 the same old place herself, that's why she understood. 
 You don't want to know what goes on In the slums, 
 but I do. Why? Because my grand-dad was bom 
 m em. 
 
 " He pulled himself out by brains and muscles," 
 
A REVELATION 123 
 
 " But Ke went back — sometimes. Oh yes, he did. 
 And the governor — I'm up to some of his little 
 games. I could tell you " 
 
 " Oh — shut up ! " said Caesar, the colour flooding 
 his cheeks. 
 
 Upon the last Saturday of the term the School 
 Concert took place. Few of the boys in the Manor, 
 and none out of it, knew that John Verney had been 
 chosen to sing the treble solo; always an attractive 
 number of the programme. John, indeed, was pain- 
 fully shy in regard to his singing, so shy that he 
 never told Desmond that he had a voice. And the 
 music-master, enchanted by its quality, impressed 
 upon his pupil the expediency of silence. He wished 
 to surprise the School. 
 
 The concerts at Harrow take place in the great 
 Speech-room. Their characteristic note is the sing- 
 ing of Harrow songs. To any boy with an ear for 
 music and a heart susceptible of emotion these songs 
 must appeal profoundly, because both words and 
 music seem to enshrine all that is noble and uplifting 
 in life. And, sung by the whole School (as are most 
 of the choruses), their message becomes curiously 
 emphatic. The spirit of the Hill is acclaimed, gladly, 
 triumphantly, unmistakably, by Harrovians repeat- 
 ing the creed of their fathers, knowing that creed 
 will be so repeated by their sons and sons' sons. Was 
 it happy chance or a happier sagacity which decreed 
 that certain verses should be sung by the School 
 Twelye, who have struggled through form after 
 form and know (and have not yet had time to for- 
 
124 THE HILL 
 
 get) the diiEcuIties and temptations which beset all 
 boys? They, to whom their fellows unanimously 
 accord respect at least, and often — as in the case of 
 a Captain of the Cricket Eleven — enthusiastic ad- 
 miration and fealty; these, the gods, in a word, 
 deliver their injunction, transmit, in turn, what has 
 been transmitted to them, and invite their successors 
 to receive it. To many how poignant must be the 
 reflection that the trust they are about to resign might 
 have been better administered! But to many there 
 must come upon the wings of those mighty, rushing 
 choruses the assurance that the Power which has 
 upheld them in the past will continue to uphold them 
 in the future. In many — would one could say in all 
 — is quickened, for the first time, perhaps, a sense of 
 what they owe to the Hill, the overwhelming debt 
 which never can be discharged. 
 
 Desmond sat beside Scaife. Scaife boasted that 
 he could not tell " God save the Queen " from " The 
 Dead March in Saul." He confessed that the con- 
 cert bored him. Desmond, on the other hand, was 
 always touched by music, or, indeed, by anything 
 appealing to an imagination which gilded all things 
 and persons. He was Scaife's friend, not only (as 
 John discovered) because Scaife had a will strong 
 enough to desire and secure that friendship, but be-, 
 cause — a subtler reason — he had never yet seen 
 Scaife as he was, but always as he might have 
 been. 
 
 Desmond told Scaife that he could not understand 
 why John had bottled up the fact that he was chosen 
 
A REVELATION 125 
 
 to sing upon such an occasion. Scaife smiled con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " You never bottle up anything, Caesar," 
 said he. 
 
 " Why should I ? And why should he ? " 
 
 " I expect he'll make an awful ass of himself." 
 
 " Oh, no, he won't," Desmond replied. " He's a 
 clever fellow is Jonathan." 
 
 As he gave John his nickname, Desmond's charm- 
 ing voice softened. A boy of less quick perceptions 
 than Scaife would have divined that the speaker liked 
 John, liked him, perhaps, better than he knew. 
 Scaife frowned. 
 
 " There are several Old Harrovians," he said, 
 indicating the seats reserved for them. " It's 
 queer to me that they come down for this cater- 
 wauling." 
 
 Desmond glanced at him sharply, with a wrinkle 
 between his eyebrows. For the moment he looked 
 as if he were short-sighted, as if he were trying 
 to define an image somewhat blurred, conscious that 
 the image itself was clear enough, that the fault lay 
 in the obscurity of his own vision. 
 
 " They come down because they're keen," he re- 
 plied. " My governor can't leave his office, or he'd 
 be here. I like to see 'em, don't you. Demon? " 
 
 " I could worry along without 'em," the Demon 
 replied, half-smiling. " You see," he added, with the 
 blend of irony and pathos which always captivated 
 his friend, " you see, my dear old chap, I'm the first 
 of my family at Harrow, and the sight of all your 
 
[126. THE HILL 
 
 [ brothers and uncles and fathers makes me feel like 
 ■ Mark Twain's good man, rather — lonesome." 
 
 At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's 
 arm. 
 
 " You're going to be Captain of the cricket and 
 footer Elevens, and the School racquet-player, and ar 
 monitor; and after you leave you'll come down here, 
 and you'll see that Harrow hasn't forgotten you, and 
 then you'll know why these fellows cut engagements. 
 My governor says that an hour at a School Concert is 
 the finest tonic in the world for an Old Harrovian." 
 
 " Oh, shut up! " said Scaife; " you make me feel 
 more of an outsider than good old Snowball." He 
 glanced at a youth sitting close to them. Snowball 
 was as black as a coal : the son of the Sultan of the 
 Sahara. " Yes, Cassar, you can't get away from it, I 
 am an ' alien.' " 
 
 " You're a silly old ass ! I say, who's the guest 
 of honour? " 
 
 Next to the Head Master was sitting a thin man 
 upon whose face were fixed hundreds of eyes. The 
 School had not been told that a famous Field Mar- 
 shal, the hero of a hundred fights, was coming to 
 the concert. And, indeed, he had accepted an invi- 
 tation given at the last moment — accepted it, more- 
 over, on the understanding that his visit was to be 
 informal. None the less, his face was familiar to 
 all readers of illustrated papers. And, suddenly, con- 
 viction seized the boys that a conqueror was among 
 them, an Old Etonian, making, possibly, his first visit 
 to the Hill. Scaife whispered his name to Desmond. 
 
A REVELATION 127 
 
 " Why, of course," Desmond replied eagerly. 
 "How splendid!" 
 
 He leaned forward, devouring the hero with his 
 eyes, trying to pierce the bronzed skin, to read the 
 record. From his seat upon the stage John, also, 
 stared at the illustrious guest. John was frightfully 
 nervous, but looking at the veteran he forgot the fear 
 of the recruit. Both Desmond and he were wonder- 
 ing what " it felt like " to have done so much. And 
 — they compared notes afterwards — each boy de- 
 plored the fact that the great man was not an Old 
 Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm, slightly impas- 
 sive. John thought he must be rather tired, as a man 
 ought to be tired after a life of strenuous endeavour 
 and achievement. He had done — so John reflected — 
 an awful lot. Even now, he remained the active, un- 
 tiring servant of Queen and country. And he had 
 taken time to come down to Harrow to hear the 
 boys sing. And, dash it all 1 he, John, was going to 
 sing to him. 
 
 At that moment Desmond was whispering to 
 Scaife — 
 
 " I say, Demon; I'm jolly glad that I've not got 
 to sing before him. I bet Jonathan is in a funk." 
 
 " A big bit of luck," replied Scaife, reflectively. 
 Then, seeing the surprise on Desmond's face, he 
 added, "If Jonathan can sing — and I suppose he can, 
 or he wouldn't be chosen — this is a chance " 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 " Caesar, sometimes I think you've no brains. 
 Why, a chance of attracting the notice of a tre- 
 
128 THE HILL 
 
 mendous swell — a man, they say, who never forgets 
 — never! Jonathaa may want a commission in the 
 Guards, as I do; and if he pleases the great man, 
 he may get it." 
 
 " Jonathan's not thinking of that," said Desmond. 
 "Shush-h-h!" 
 
 The singers stood up. They faced the Field- 
 Marshal, and he faced them. He looked hardest at 
 Lawrence, pointed out to him by the Head Master. 
 Perhaps he was thinking of India; and the name 
 of Lawrence indelibly cut upon the memories of all 
 who fought in the Mutiny. And Lawrence, you may 
 be sure, met his glance steadily, being fortified by it. 
 The good fellow felt terribly distressed, because he 
 was leaving the Hill ; and, being a humble gentleman, 
 the old songs served to remind him, not of what he 
 had done, but of what he left undone — the words 
 unspoken, the actions never now to be performed. 
 The chief caught his eyes, smiled, and nodded, as if 
 to say, " I claim your father's son as a friend." 
 
 When the song came to an end, John was seized 
 with an almost irresistible impulse to bolt. His turn 
 had come. He must stand up to sing before nearly 
 six hundred boys, who would stare down with gravely 
 critical and courteously amused eyes. And already 
 his legs trembled as if he were seized of a palsy. 
 John knew that he could sing. His mother, who sang 
 gloriously, had trained him. From her he had in- 
 herited his vocal chords, and from her he drew the 
 knowledge how to use them. 
 
 When he stood up, pale and trembling, the silence 
 
A REVELATION 129 
 
 fell upon his sensibilities as if it were a dense, yellow 
 fog. This silence, as John knew, was an unwritten 
 law. The small boy selected to sing to the School, 
 as the representative of the School, must have every 
 chance. Let his voice be heard 1 The master playing 
 the accompaniment paused and glanced at his pupil. 
 John, however, was not looking at him ; he was look- 
 ing within at a John he despised — a poltroon, a de- 
 serter about to run from his first engagement. He 
 knew that the introduction to the song was being 
 played a second time, and he saw the Head Master 
 whispering to his guest. Paralysed with terror, 
 John's intuition told him that the Head Master was 
 murmuring, " That's the nephew of John Verney. 
 Of course you know him? " And the Field Marshal 
 nodded. And then he looked at John, as John had 
 seen him look at Lawrence, with the same flare of 
 recognition in the steel-grey eyes. Out of the con- 
 fused welter of faces shone that pair of eyes — twin 
 beacons flashing their message of encouragement and 
 salvation to a fellow-creature in peril — at least, so 
 John interpreted that piercing glance. It seemed to 
 say, far plainer than words, " I have stood alone as 
 you stand; I have felt my knees as wax; I have 
 wished to run away. But — I didn't. Nor must you. 
 Open your mouth and sing! " 
 
 So John opened his mouth and sang. The first 
 verse of the lyric went haltingly. 
 
 Scaife growled to Desmond, " He is going to 
 make an ass of himself." 
 
 And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought 
 
130 THE HILL 
 
 that the speaker wished that John would fail — that 
 he grudged him a triumph. None the less, the first 
 verse, sung feebly, with wrong phrasing and imperfect 
 articulation, revealed the quality of the boy's voice; 
 and this quality Desmond recognized, as he would 
 have recognized a fine painting or a bit of perfect 
 porcelain. All his short life his father had trained 
 him to look for and acclaim quality, whether in things 
 animate or inanimate. He caught hold of Scaife's 
 arm. 
 
 " Make an ass of himself! " he whispered back. 
 " Not he. But he may make an ass of me." 
 
 Even as he spoke he was aware that tears were 
 horribly near his eyes. Some catch in John's voice, 
 some subtle inflection, had smitten his heart, even as 
 the prophet smote the rock. 
 
 " Rot! " said Scaife, angrily. 
 
 He was angry, furiously angry, because he saw 
 that Caesar was beyond his reach, whirled innumer- 
 able leagues away by the sound of another's voice. 
 John had begun the second verse. He stared, as if 
 hypnotized, straight into the face of the great soldier, 
 who in turn stared as steadily at John ; and John was 
 singing like a lark, with a lark's spontaneous delight 
 in singing, with an ease and self-abandonment which 
 charmed eye almost as much as ear. Higher and 
 higher rose the clear, sexless notes, till two of them 
 met and mingled in a triumphant trill. To Desmond, 
 that trill was the answer to the quavering, troubled 
 cadences of the first verse; the vindication of the 
 spirit soaring upwards unfettered by the flesh — the 
 
A REVELATION 131 
 
 pure spirit, not released from the pitiful human clay 
 without a fierce struggle. At that moment Desmond 
 loved the singer — the singer who called to him out 
 of heaven, who summoned his friend to join him, to 
 see what he saw — " the vision splendid." 
 
 John began the third and last verse. The famous 
 soldier covered his face with his hand, releasing 
 John's eyes, which ascended, like his voice, till they 
 met joyfully the eyes of Desmond. At last he was 
 singing to his friend — and his friend knew it. John 
 saw Desmond's radiant smile, and across that ocean 
 of faces he smiled back. Then, knowing that he 
 was nearer to his friend than he had ever been before, 
 he gathered together his energies for the last line of 
 the song — a line to be repeated three times, loudly 
 at first, then more softly, diminishing to the merest 
 whisper of sound, the voice celestial melting away in 
 the ear of earth-bound mortals. The master knew 
 well the supreme difficulty of producing properly this 
 last attenuated note; but he knew also that John's 
 lungs were strong, that the vocal chords had never 
 been strained. Still, if the boy's breath failed; if any- 
 thing — a smile, a frown, a cough — distracted his 
 attention, the end would be weakness, failure. He 
 wondered why John was staring so fixedly in one 
 direction. 
 
 Now — now I 
 
 The piano crashed out the last line ; but far above 
 it, dominating it, floated John's flute-like notes. 
 The master played the same bars for the second 
 time. He was still able to sustain, if it were 
 
132 THE HILL 
 
 necessary, a quavering, imperfect phrase. But John 
 delivered the second repetition without a mistake, 
 singing easily from the chest. The master put his 
 foot upon the soft pedal. Nobody was watching 
 him. Had any one done so, he would have seen the 
 perspiration break upon the musician's forehead. 
 The piano purred its accompaniment. Then, in the 
 middle of the phrase, the master lifted his hands 
 and held them poised above the instrument. John 
 had to sing three notes unsupported. He was smil- 
 ing and staring at Desmond. The first note came 
 like a question from the heart o-f a child ; the second, 
 higher up, might have been interpreted as an echo 
 to the innocent interrogation of the first, the head 
 no wiser than the heart; but the third and last note 
 had nothing in it of interrogation : it was an answer, 
 all-satisfying — sublime! Nor did it seem to come 
 from John at all, but from above, falling like a snow- 
 flake out of the sky. 
 
 And then, for one immeasurable moment — 
 silence. 
 
 John slipped back to his seat, crimson with bash- 
 fulness, while the School thundered applause. The 
 Field Marshal shouted " Encore 1 " as loudly as any 
 fag; but the Head Master whispered — 
 
 " We don't encourages encores. A small boy's 
 head is easily turned." 
 
 " Not his," the hero replied. 
 
 Two numbers followed, and then the School stood 
 up, and with them all Old Harrovians, to sing the 
 famous National Anthem of Harrow, " Forty Years 
 
A REVELATION 133 
 
 on." Only the guests and the masters remained 
 seated. 
 
 " Forty years on, growing older and older. 
 
 Shorter in wind, as in memory long. 
 Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder. 
 
 What will it help you that once you were strong? 
 God give us bases to guard or beleaguer, 
 
 Games to play out, whether earnest or fun; 
 Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager. 
 
 Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on ! 
 Follow up ! Follow up ! Follow up ! Follow up ! 
 
 Till the field ring again and again, 
 
 With the tramp of the twenty-two men. 
 Follow— up ! " 
 
 As the hundreds of voices, past and present in- 
 dissolubly linked together, imposed the mandate, 
 "Follow up!" the Head Master glanced at his 
 guest, but left unsaid the words about to be uttered. 
 Tears were trickling down the cheeks of the man 
 who, forty years before, had won his Sovereign's 
 Cross — For Valour. 
 
 After the concert, but before he left the Speech- 
 room, the Field Marshal asked the Head Master 
 to introduce Lawrence and John, and, of course, the 
 Head of the School. When John came up, there 
 was a twinkle in the veteran's eye. 
 
 "Ha — ha I" said he; "you were in a precious 
 funk, John Verney." 
 
 " I was, sir," said John. 
 
 " Gad! Don't I know the feeling? Well, well," 
 he chuckled, smiling at John, " you climbed up 
 
134 THE HILL 
 
 higher than I've ever been In my life. What was it 
 —hey? 'F' in 'alt'?" 
 
 " ' G,' sir." 
 
 " You sang delightfully. Tell your uncle to bring 
 you to see me next time you are in town. You must 
 consider me a friend," he chuckled again — " an old 
 friend. And look ye here," his pleasant voice sank 
 to a whisper, " I daren't tip these tremendous swells, 
 but I feel that I can take such a liberty with you. 
 Shush-h-h! Good-bye." 
 
 John scurried away, bursting with pride, feeling 
 to the core the strong grip of the strong man, hear- 
 ing the thrill of his voice, the thrill which had 
 vibrated in thousands of soldier-hearts. Outside, 
 Fluff was awaiting him. 
 
 " Oh, Jonathan, you can sing, and no mistake ! " 
 
 " Five — six — seven mistakes," John answered. 
 
 The boys laughed. John told Fluff what the hero 
 had said to him, and showed the piece of gold. 
 
 " What ho ! The Creameries ! Come on, 
 Esmel" 
 
 At the Creameries several boys congratulated 
 John, and the Caterpillar said — 
 
 " You astonished us, Jonathan; 'pon my soul you 
 did ! Have a ' dringer ' with me ? And Fluff too ? 
 By the way, be sure to keep your hair clipped close. 
 These singing fellows with manes may be lions in 
 their own estimation, but the world looks upon 'em 
 as asses." 
 
 " That's not bad for you, Caterpillar," said a 
 boy in the Fifth, 
 
A REVELATION 1135 
 
 "' Not my own," said the Caterpillar, solemnly — 
 " my father's. I take from him all the good things 
 I can get hold of." 
 
 John polished off his " dringer," listening to the 
 chaff, but his thoughts were with Desmond. He 
 had an intuition that Desmond would have some- 
 thing to say to him. As soon as possible he returned 
 to the Manor. 
 
 There he found his room empty. John shut the 
 door and sat down, looking about him half-absently. 
 The Duffer had not contributed much to the mural 
 decoration, saying, loftily, that he preferred bare 
 walls to rubbishy engravings and Japanese fans. 
 But, with curious Inconsistency (for he was the least 
 vain of mortals), he had bought at a "leaving 
 auction " a three-sided mirror — once the property 
 of a great buck in the Sixth. The Duffer had got it 
 cheap, but he never used it. The lower boys re- 
 marked to each other that Duff didn't dare to look 
 in it, because what he would see must not only break 
 his heart but shatter the glass. Generally, it hung, 
 folded up, close to the window, and the Duffer said 
 that it would come in handy when he took to 
 shaving. 
 
 John's eye rested on this mirror, vacantly at first, 
 then with gathering intensity. Presently he got up, 
 crossed the room, opened the two folding panels, and 
 examined himself attentively, pursing up his lips and 
 frowning. He could see John Verney full face, 
 three-quarter face, and half face. And he could see 
 the back of his head, where an obstinate lock of 
 
136 THE HILL 
 
 hair stuck out like a drake's tail. John was so occu- 
 pied in taking stock of his personal disadvantages 
 that a ringing laugh quite startled him. 
 
 " Why, Jonathan ! Giving yourself a treat — 
 eh?" 
 
 John turned a solemn face to Desmond. " I thihk 
 my head is hideous," he said ruefully. 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " It's too long," John explained. " I like a nice 
 round head like yours, Cassar. I wish I wasn't so 
 ugly." 
 
 , Desmond laughed. John always amused him. 
 Caesar was easily amused, saw the funny side of 
 things, and contrasts tickled his fancy agreeably. But 
 he stopped laughing when he realized that John was 
 hurt. Then, quickly, impulsively, he said — 
 
 " Your head is all right, old Jonathan. And your 
 voice is simply beautiful." He spoke seriously, 
 staring at John as he had stared in the Speech-room 
 when John began to sing. " I came here to tell 
 you that. I felt odd when you were singing — quite 
 weepsy, you know. You like me, old Jonathan, 
 don't you? " 
 
 " Awfully," said John. 
 
 " Why did you look at me when you sang that 
 last verse? Did you know that you were looking 
 at me?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You looked at me because — ^well, because — ^bar 
 chaff — you — liked — ^me? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
A REVELATION 137 
 
 " You like me better than any other fellow In 
 the school?" 
 
 " Yes; better than any other fellow in the world." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 " I have always felt that way since — ^yes — since 
 the very first minute I saw you." 
 
 " How rum ! I've forgotten just where we did 
 meet for the first time." 
 
 " I shall never forget," said John, in the same 
 slow, deliberate fashion, never taking his eyes from 
 Desmond's face. Ever since he had sung, he had 
 known that this moment was coming. " I shall 
 never forget it," he repeated — " never. You were 
 standing near the Chapel. I was poking about alone, 
 trying to find the shop where we buy our straws. 
 And I was feeling as all new boys feel, only more 
 so, because I didn't know a soul." 
 
 "Yes," said Desmond, gravely; "you told me 
 that. I remember now; I mistook you for young 
 Hardacre." 
 
 " You smiled at me, Ceesar. It warmed me 
 through and through. I suppose that when a fellow 
 is starving he never forgets the first meal after it." 
 
 " I say. Go on ; this is awfully Interesting." 
 
 " I can remember what you wore. One of your 
 bootlaces had burst " 
 
 "Well; I'm " 
 
 " I had a wild sort of wish to run off and buy you 
 a new lace " 
 
 " Of all the rum starts I " 
 
 " Afterwards," John continued, " I tried to suck- 
 
138 THE HILL 
 
 up. I asked you to come and have some ' food.' 
 Do you remember? " 
 
 " I'll bet I came, Jonathan." 
 
 " No ; you didn't. You said ' No.' " 
 
 " Dash it all ! I certainly said, ' No, thanks.' " 
 
 " I dare say. The ' No ' hurt awfully because I 
 did feel that it was cheek asking you." 
 
 " Jonathan, you funny old buster, I'll never say 
 ' No ' again. 'Pon my word, I won't. So I said 
 ' No.' That's odd, because it's not easy for me to 
 say ' No.' The governor pointed that out last hols. 
 Somehow, I can't say ' No,' particularly if there's 
 any excitement in saying ' Yes.' And my beastly 
 'No ' hurt, did it? Well, I'm very, very sorry." 
 
 He held out his hand, which John took. Then, 
 for a moment, there was a pause before Desmond 
 continued awkwardly — 
 
 " You know, Jonathan, that the Demon is my 
 pal. You like him better than you did, don't you? " 
 
 John had the tact not to speak; but he shook his 
 head dolefully. 
 
 " And I couldn't chuck him, even if I wanted to, 
 which I don't — ^which I don't," he repeated, with an 
 air of satisfying himself rather than John. And 
 John divined that Scaife's hold upon Desmond's af- 
 fections was not so strong as he had deemed it to 
 be. Desmond continued, " But I want you, too, old 
 Jonathan, and if — if " 
 
 " All right," said John, nobly. He perceived that 
 Desmond's loyalty to Scaife made him hesitate and 
 flush. " I understand, Caesar, and if I can't be first, 
 
A REVELATION 139 
 
 let me be second; only, remember, with me you're 
 first, rain or shine." 
 
 Desmond looked uneasy. " Isn't that a case of 
 ' heads I win, tails you lose ' ? " 
 
 John considered; then he smiled cheerfully, " You 
 know you are a winner, Caesar. You're cut out for 
 a winner; you can win whatever you want to win." 
 
 " Oh, that's all rot," said Desmond. He looked 
 very grave, and in his eyes lay shadows which John 
 had never seen before. 
 
 And so ended John's first year at Harrow. 
 
CHAPTER yil 
 
 REFORM 
 
 " ' It must be a gran' thing to be a colledge profissor.' 
 
 " ' Not much to do,' said Mr. Hennessy. 
 
 " ' But a. gr-reat deal to say,' said Mr. Dooley." 
 
 When John returned to the Hill at the beginning of 
 the winter term the great change had taken place. 
 Rutford had assumed the duties of Professor of 
 Greek at a Scotch University; Warde was in posses- 
 sion of the Manor; Scaife and Desmond and John — 
 but not the Caterpillar — had got their remove. They 
 were Fifth Form boys — and in tails! John, it is 
 true, although tougher and broader, was still short 
 for his years and juvenile of appearance, but Scaife 
 and Desmond were quite big fellows, and their new 
 coats became them mightily. Trieve was Head of 
 the House; Lovell, Captain of the House football 
 Eleven and in the Lower Sixth. 
 
 " Lovell will have to behave himself now," the 
 Duffer remarked to Scaife, who laughed derisively, 
 as he answered — 
 
 " He couldn't, even if he tried." 
 
 Warde welcomed the House at lock-up, and in- 
 troduced the boys to his wife and daughter. Mrs. 
 Warde had a plain, pleasant face. Miss Warde, 
 however, was a beauty, and she knew it, the coquette, 
 and had known it from the hour she could peep into 
 
 140 
 
REFORM !i4r 
 
 'a mirror. The Caterpillar pronounced her " fetch- 
 ing." Being only fifteen, she wore her hair in a 
 plait tied by a huge bow, and the hem of her skirt 
 barely touched the neatest ankle on Harrow Hill. 
 Give her a saucy, pink-and-white ,face, pop a pert 
 tip-tilted nose into the middle of it just above a pout- 
 ing red mouth, and just below her father's lapis-lazuH 
 eyes, and you will see Iris Warde. Her hair was 
 reddish, not red — call it a warm chestnut; and she 
 had a dimple. 
 
 After the introductions, mother and daughter left 
 the hall. Warde stood up, inviting the House to 
 sit down. Warde was about half the width of the 
 late Rutford, but somehow he seemed to take up more 
 room. He had spent the summer holidays in Swit- 
 zerland, climbing terrific peaks. Snow and sun had 
 coloured his clear complexion. John, who saw be- 
 neath tanned skins, reflected that Warde seemed to 
 be saturated with fresh air and all the sweet clean 
 things which one associates with mountains. " He 
 loves hills," thought John, " and he loves our Hill." 
 Warde began to speak In his jerky, confidential tones. 
 Dirty Dick had always been insufferably dull, pomp- 
 ous, and didactic. 
 
 " I don't like speechmaking," said Warde, " but 
 I want to put one thing to you as strongly as a man 
 may. I have always wished to be master of the 
 Manor. Some men may think mine a small ambi- 
 tion. Master of a house at Harrow? Npthing 
 big about that. Perhaps not. But I think it big. 
 And it is big — for me. Understand that I'm in love 
 
142 THE HILL 
 
 with my job — head over heels. I'd sooner be master 
 of the Manor than Prime Minister. I couldn't 
 tackle his work. Enough of that. Now, forget for 
 a moment that I'm a Master. Let me talk as an 
 Old Harrovian, an old Manorite who remembers 
 everything, ay — everything, good and bad. Some 
 lucky fellows remember the good only; we call them 
 optimists. Others remember the bad. Pessimists 
 those. Put me between the two. The other day I 
 had an eye, one eye, fixed on the top of a certain 
 peak — ^by Jove ! how I longed to reach that peak-^ 
 but the other eye was on a crevasse at my feet. Had 
 I kept both eyes on the peak, I should be lying now 
 at the bottom of that crevasse. You take me? 
 Well, twenty years ago I sat here, in hall, my last 
 night in the old house, and I hoped that one day 
 I might come back. Why? This is between our- 
 selves, a confidence. I came to the Manor from a 
 beastly school, such schools are hardly to be found 
 nowadays — a hardened young sinner at thirteen. 
 The Manor licked me into shape. Speaking gen- 
 erally, I suppose the tone of the house insensibly 
 communicated itself to me. The Manor was cock- 
 house at games and work. I began by shirking 
 both. But the spirit of the Hill was too much for 
 me. I couldn't shirk that. Some jolly old boys, 
 we all know them and like them, are always saying 
 that their early school-days were the happiest of their 
 life. They're fond of telling this big lie just as 
 they're settling down to their claret. I really believe 
 that they believe what they say, but it is a lie. The 
 
REFORM 143 
 
 smallest boy here knows it's a lie. Let's hark back 
 a bit. I said I was licked into shape — and I mean 
 licked. I had a lot of really hard fagging — much 
 harder than any of you boys know — I was sent up 
 and swished, I had whoppings innumerable, and it 
 wasn't pleasant. My mother had pinched herself 
 to send me here, because my father had been here 
 before me ; and I wondered why she did it. At that 
 time I couldn't see why cheaper schools shouldn't 
 be not only as good as Harrow, but perhaps better. 
 Not till I was in the Fifth did I get a glimmering of 
 what my mother and the Manor were doing for me. 
 When I got into the Sixth and into the Eleven I 
 knew. And my last year here made up, and more 
 too, for the previous four. I enjoyed that year 
 thoroughly. I had ceased to be a slacker. I tell 
 you, all of you, that happiness, like liberty, must be 
 earned before we can enjoy it. And you are sent 
 here to earn It. I'm not going to keep you much 
 longer. I have come to the marrow of the matter. 
 I owe the Manor a debt which I hope to pay to — ■ 
 you. Just as you, in turn, will pay back to boys not 
 yet born the money your people have gladly spent on 
 you, and other greater things beside. I want to see 
 this house at the top of the tree again : cock-house at 
 cricket, cock-house at footer, with a Balliol Scholar 
 in it, and a School racquet-player. And now Dum- 
 bleton is going to bring in a little champagne. We'll 
 drink high health and fellowship to the Manor and 
 the Hill." 
 
 His face broke into the smile his form knew so 
 
144 THE HILL 
 
 well; he sat down, as the house roared its welcome 
 to a friend. 
 
 As soon as the champagne was drunk (" Dum- 
 ber " was careful to put more froth than wine into 
 the glasses of the kids), the boys filed out of the 
 Hall. The Duffer, Desmond, John, and the Cater- 
 pillar assembled in John's room. Desmond, you may 
 be sure, was afire with resolution. Warde was the 
 right sort, a clinker, a first flighter. And he meant 
 to stick by him through thick and thin. John said 
 nothing. The Caterpillar drawled out — 
 
 " Warde didn't surprise me — much. I've found 
 out that he's one of the Wardes of Warde-Pomeroy, 
 the real old stuff. Our families inter-married in 
 Elizabeth's reign." 
 
 " Chance to do it again, Caterpillar," said the 
 Duffer. " Warde's daughter is an uncommonly 
 pretty girl." 
 
 Then the Caterpillar used the epithet " fetch- 
 ing." 
 
 " She's fetching, very fetching," he said. " It's 
 a pleasure to remember that we're of kin. One must 
 be civil to Warde. He's a well bred 'un." 
 
 " You think too much of family," said Desmond. 
 
 " One can't," replied the Caterpillar, solemnly. 
 " One knows that family is not everything, but, other 
 things being equal, it means refinement. The first 
 of the Howards was a swineherd, I dare say, but 
 generations of education, of association with the best, 
 have turned them from swineherds into gentlemen, 
 and it takes generations to do it." 
 
REFORM 145 
 
 " Good old Caterpillar! " said the Duffer. 
 
 "Not my own," said the Caterpillar; adding, as 
 usual, " My governor's, you know." 
 
 "Warde hasn't a soft job ahead of him," said 
 Desmond. 
 
 " Soft or hard, he'll handle it his own way." 
 
 Desmond went out, wondering what had become 
 of Scaife. Scaife was in his room, talking to Lovell, 
 who had spent a fortnight with Scaife's people 
 in Scotland, fishing and grousing. Desmond had 
 been asked also, but his father, rather to Caesar's 
 disgust (for the Scaife moor was famous), had re- 
 fused to let him go. Lovell and Scaife were argu- 
 ing about something which Desmond could not un- 
 derstand. 
 
 " I left it to my partner," said Scaife, " and the 
 fool went no trumps holding two missing suits. The 
 enemy doubled, my partner redoubled, and the others 
 redoubled again: that made it ninety-six a trick. 
 The fellow on the left held my partner's missing 
 suits ; he made the Little Slam, and scored nearly six 
 hundred below the line. It gave 'em the rubber, 
 too, and I had to fork out a couple of quid." 
 
 "What are you jawing about, Demon?" said 
 Desmond. 
 
 " Bridge. It's the new game. It's going to be 
 the rage. Do you play bridge, Caesar? " 
 
 " No. I want to learn it." 
 
 " All right, I must teach you." 
 
 " We could get up a four in this house," said 
 Lovell. " We three and the Caterpillar. He 
 
146 THE HILL 
 
 plays, I know. The Colonel is one of the cracks at 
 the Turf. It would be an awful lark. A mild 
 gamble: small points — eh? A bob a hundred. 
 What do you say, Caesar?" 
 
 Desmond hesitated. Bridge had not yet reached 
 its delirious stage. But Desmond had seen it played, 
 had heard his father praise it as the most fascinating 
 of card-games, and had determined to learn it at the 
 first convenient opportunity. None the less Warde's 
 words still echoed In his ear. 
 
 " I think we ought to give Warde a chance," he 
 said. 
 
 " You don't mean to say you were taken in by 
 him? " said Lovell, contemptuously. 
 
 Desmond burst into enthusiastic praise of Warde 
 and his methods. Lovell shrugged his shoulders 
 and walked out of the room, nodding to Scaife, but 
 ignoring Desmond. 
 
 " You must go canny with Lovell," said Scaife. 
 " He's the fellow who ought to give you your 'fez.' " 
 
 " Never mind that. You won't play bridge, 
 Demon, will you ? " 
 
 " Why not? " said Scaife. " Where's the harm? 
 Your governor plays " 
 
 "Yes; but^— " 
 
 "You're afraid of getting sacked?" 
 
 " I'm not." 
 
 "All right; I'll take that back. You're not a 
 funk, Caesar, but you're so easily humbugged. 
 Warde caught you with his 'pi jaw ' and a glass of 
 gooseberry." 
 
REFORM 147 
 
 " The champagne was all right, wasn't it? " 
 
 *' Oh, ho I So you do mean to stand in with 
 Warde against Lovell and me? Thanks for being 
 so candid. Now I'll be candid with you. I like 
 Lovell. There's no nonsense about him. He don't 
 put on frills because he's in the Sixth, and he don't 
 mean to take to their sneaking, spying ways. He's 
 just as anxious as Warde to see the Manor cock- 
 house at footer and cricket, and I'm as keen as he 
 is; but we stop there. The Balliol Scholarship may 
 go hang. And as for sympathy and fellowship and 
 pulling together between masters and boys, I never 
 did believe in it, and never shall. My hand is 
 against the masters, so long as they interfere with 
 anything I want to do. I like bridge, and I mean 
 to play it. And I'll take jolly good care that I'm 
 not nailed. That's part of the fun, as the drinking 
 used to be. I chucked that because it wasn't good 
 enough; but bridge is ripping, and, take my word 
 for it, you'll be keener than I when you begin." 
 
 " Perhaps. But I'm not going to begin here." 
 
 "Right— oh!" 
 
 Scaife turned aside, whistling, but out of the 
 corner of his shrewd eye he marked the expression 
 of Desmond's face, the colour ebbing and flowing in 
 the round boyish cheeks, the perplexity on the brow. 
 Then he spoke in a different voice. 
 
 " Don't worry, old chap. You've stuck to me 
 through thick and thin, and I'm grateful, really and 
 truly. You're right, and I'm wrong; I always am 
 Sv^rong. I was looking forward to larks. If you 
 
148 THE HILL 
 
 count 'em purple sins, I don't blame you for letting 
 me go to the devil by myself." 
 
 " I never said bridge was a purple sin." 
 
 " Warde thinks it is. If you're going to look at 
 life here with his eyes, you'll have to rename things. 
 Babies play Beggar my ^Neighbour for chocolates; 
 why shouldn't we play bridge for a bob a hundred? 
 The game is splendid for the brain; ten thousand 
 times better than translating Greek choruses.'^ 
 
 " But it is gambling, Demon ; you can't get away 
 from that." 
 
 " Pooh ! It's gambling if I bet you a ' dringer ' 
 that you won't make ten runs in a .house-match ; it's 
 gambling if I raffle a picture and you take a six- 
 penny ticket. Are you going to give up that sort of 
 gambling? " 
 
 "No; but " 
 
 " What would Warde say to our co-operative sys- 
 tem of work — eh? You're not prepared to go the 
 whole hog? You want to pick and choose. Good! 
 But give me the same right, that's all. Play bridge 
 with your old pals, or don't play, just as you please." 
 
 No more was said. Scaife^s manner rather than 
 his matter confounded the younger and less experi- 
 enced boy. Scaife, too, tackled problems which 
 many men prefer to leave alone. Here heredity 
 cropped up. Scaife's sire and grandsire were earn- 
 ing their bread before they were sixteen. Of neces- 
 sity they faced and overcame obstacles which the 
 ordinaty Public School boy never meets till he leaves 
 the University. 
 
REFORM :i49 
 
 For some time after this bridge was not men- 
 tioned. Lovell, acting, possibly, under advice 
 from Scaife, treated Desmond courteously, and 
 gave him his " fez " after the first house-game. 
 Both boys now were members of the Manor cricket 
 and football Elevens, and, as such, persons of dis- 
 tinction in their small world. Scaife, moreover, be- 
 gan to play football with such extraordinary dash 
 and brilliancy, that it seemed to be quite on the 
 cards that he might get his School Flannels. This 
 possibility, and the Greek in the Fifth, absorbed his 
 energies for the first six weeks of the winter quarter. 
 John had come back to Scaife's room to prepare 
 work. Desmond felt that Scaife had been generous 
 in proposing that John should join them, because in 
 many small ways it had become evident that the 
 Demon disliked John, although he still spoke of 
 the tight place out of which John had hauled him. 
 Through Scaife John received his " fez " ; and when 
 John wore it for the first time, Scaife came up and 
 said, smiling — 
 
 "I'm nearly even with you, Verney." 
 
 " What do you mean? " said John. 
 
 " You know well enough what I mean," said 
 Scaife, winking his eye maliciously. 
 
 John flushed, because in his heart he did know. 
 But when he told Egerton what Scaife had said, 
 that experienced man of the world turned up his 
 nose. 
 
 " Just like him," he said. " He wants you to feel 
 that he has wiped out his debt." 
 
I50 THE HILL 
 
 " Do you think my ' fez ' ought to .have been 
 given to young Lovell? " 
 
 The Caterpillar, who played back for the Manor, 
 considered the question. 
 
 " I don't know," he said. " You are pretty 
 nearly equal; but it's a fact that the Demon turned 
 the scale. He pointed out to Lovell that if he gave 
 a ' fez ' to his younger brother, the house might ac- 
 cuse him of favouritism. That did the trick." 
 
 This made John uneasy and unhappy for a week 
 or two; but the consciousness that another might be 
 better entitled to the coveted " fez " made him play 
 up with such energy that he succeeded in proving to 
 all critics that he had honestly earned what luck had 
 bestowed on him. 
 
 During the last week of October, John began the 
 first of those long walks with Desmond which, after- 
 wards, he came to regard as perhaps the most de- 
 lightful hours spent at Harrow. Scaife detested 
 walking. He had his father's power of focusing 
 attention and energy upon a single object. For the 
 moment he was mad about football. • Talk about 
 books, scenery, people, bored him, and he said so 
 with his usual frankness and impatience of restraint. 
 Desmond, on the other hand, was also like his father, 
 inasmuch as his tastes were catholic. He was a bit 
 of a naturalist, learned in the lore of woods and 
 fields, and he liked to talk about books, and he liked 
 to talk about his home. Simple John would sooner 
 hear Caesar talk than listen to the heavenly choir. 
 So it came to pass that once a week at least the boys 
 
REFORM 151 
 
 would stroll down the avenue at Orley Farm (where 
 Anthony TroUope's sad boyhood was passed), or 
 take the Northwick Walk, which winds through 
 meadows to the Bridge, or visit John Lyon's farm 
 at Preston, or, getting signed for Bill, attempt a 
 longer ramble to Ruislip Reservoir, or Oxhey Wood, 
 or Headstone with its moated grange, or Horsington 
 Hill, with its long-stretching view across the Ux- 
 bridge plain. 
 
 Very soon it became the natural thing for Cassar 
 to give John a glimpse, at least, of whatever floated 
 in and out of his mind. John, being himself a crea- 
 ture of reserves, could not quite understand this un- 
 locking of doors, but he appreciated his privileges. 
 Caesar's ingenuousness, sympathy, and impulsiveness, 
 seemed the more enchanting because John himself 
 was of the look-before-you-leap, the think-before- 
 you-speak, sort. One Sunday evening they were 
 hurrying back to Chapel, when they passed a woman 
 carrying a heavy child. The poor creature appeared 
 to be almost fainting with fatigue and possibly hun- 
 ger. Her pinched face, her bent figure, her thin 
 garments, bespoke a passionate protest against condi- 
 tions which obviously she was powerless to avert or 
 control. The boys glanced at her with pitying eyes 
 as they passed. Then Desmond said quickly — 
 
 " I say, Jonathan, she looks as if she was going to 
 fall down." 
 
 John, seeing what was in his friend's mind, said — 
 " We must hurry up, or we shall miss Chapel." 
 They offered the woman sixpences, and blushes, 
 
152 THE HILE 
 
 because through the tattered shawl might be seen a 
 shrunken bosom. 
 
 The woman stared, stammered, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " We shall miss Chapel," John whispered. 
 
 " Hang Chapel," said Desmond. 
 
 He was looking at the child. When the woman 
 took the silver, she let the child slip to the ground, 
 where it lay inert. 
 
 " What's the matter with it? " said Desmond. 
 
 Half sobbing, the woman explained that the child 
 had sprained its ankle. 
 
 "I'm just about done," she gasped; "an' the 
 sight o' you two young gen'lemen runnin' up the 'ill 
 finished me. I ain't the leaky sort," she added 
 fiercely, still gasping and trembling. 
 
 Then she bent down and tried to lift the heavy 
 child, which moaned feebly. 
 
 " You run on, Jonathan," said Desmond. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I'm going to carry this kid up the hill." ' 
 
 " I'll help." 
 
 " No — hook it, you assl " 
 
 " I won't hook it." 
 
 Between them they carried the child as far as the 
 Speech-room, where a policeman accepted a shilling, 
 and gave in return a positive assurance that he would 
 see woman and child to their destination. When the 
 boys were alone, John said — 
 
 " Caesar " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
REFORM 1153 
 
 " What a fellow you are ! I wouldn't have 
 thought of that. It was splendid." 
 
 " Oh, shut up 1 " There was a slight pause, then 
 Cassar said defiantly, " I thought of carrying that 
 kid; but I wouldn't have done it, unless I'd known 
 that every boy was safe in Chapel. I couldn't have 
 faced the chaff. And — ^you could." 
 
 They were punished for cutting Chapel, because 
 Caesar refused to give the reason which would have 
 saved them. 
 
 " I'd have told the truth," he admitted to John, 
 " if I could have shouldered that kid with the Man- 
 orites looking on." 
 J John agreed that this was an excellent and a Ce- 
 sarean (he coined the adjective on this occasion) 
 reason. 
 
 Among the Fifth Form boys of the Manor was a 
 big coarse-looking youth of the name of Beaumont- 
 Greene. Everybody called him Beaumont-Greene 
 in full, because upon his first appearance at Bill he 
 had stopped the line of boys by refusing to answer 
 to the name of Greene. 
 
 " My name," said he, in a shrill pipe, " is Beau- 
 mont-Greene, and we spell the Greene with a 
 final ' e.' " 
 
 Beaumont-Greene was a type of boy, unhappily, 
 too common at Public Schools. He had no feeling 
 whatever for Harrow, save that it was a place where 
 it behoved a boy to escape punishment if he could, 
 and to run, hot foot, towards anything which would 
 
154 THE HILL 
 
 yield pleasure to his body. He was known to the 
 Manorites as a funk at footer, and a prodigious con- 
 sumer of " food " at the Creameries. His father, 
 having accumulated a large fortune in manufactur- 
 ing what was advertised in most of the public prints 
 as the " Imperishable, Seamless, Whale-skin Boot," 
 gave his son plenty of money. As a Lower Boy, 
 Beaumont-Greene had but a sorry time of it. Some- 
 body discovered that he was what Gilbert once de- 
 scribed as an " imperfect ablutioner." The Cater- 
 pillar made a point of telling new boys the nature 
 of the punishment meted out to the unclean. He had 
 assisted at the " toshing " of Beaumont-Greene. 
 
 "A nasty job," the Caterpillar would remark, 
 looking at his own speckless finger-nails; " but it had 
 to be done. We took the Greene person " (the 
 Caterpillar alone refused to defame the fine name of 
 Beaumont by linking it to Greene) " and placed him 
 naked in a large tosh. Into that tosh the house was 
 invited to pour any fluid that could be spared. One 
 forgets things; but, unless I'm mistaken, the partic- 
 ular sheep-wash used was made up of lemonade, 
 syrups, ink — plenty of that — ^milk (I bought a quart 
 myself), tooth-powder, paraffin, and a cake of Sa- 
 polio — Monkey Brand 1 We scrubbed the Yahoo 
 thoroughly, washed its teeth, ears, hair and then we 
 dried it. I don't know who smeared marmalade on 
 to the towel, but the drying part was not very suc- 
 cessful. Rather tough — eh? Yes, very tough — on 
 us, but effective. The Greene person has toshed 
 regularly ever since. At least, so I'm told; I never 
 
REFORM 1155 
 
 go near him myself, and he's considerate enough to 
 keep out of my way." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene had not, it is true, the appetite 
 for reckless breaking of the law which distinguished 
 Lovell and his particular pals; but Lovell's good 
 qualities cancelled to a certain extent what was 
 vicious. A fine cricketer, a plucky football-player, he 
 might have proved a credit to his house had a master 
 other than Dirty Dick been originally in command of 
 It. Before he was out of the Shell, he had declared 
 war against Authority. Beaumont-Greene, on the 
 other hand, detested games, and sneered at those who 
 played them. Pulpy, pimply, gross In mind and 
 body, he stood for that heavy, amorphous resistance 
 to good, which is so difficult to overcome. 
 
 During the first half of the winter quarter, John 
 saw but little of Esme KInloch. It Is one of the 
 characteristics of a Public School, that the boys — as 
 In the greater world for which It Is a preparation — 
 are In layers. Some layers overlap; others never 
 touch. Fluff was a fag; his friend John was in the 
 Fifth Form, and a " fez." In a word, an Atlantic 
 rolled between them. John; however, would often 
 give Fluff a " con," and occasionally they would walk 
 together. Fluff was no longer the delicate, girlish 
 child of a year ago. He had bloomed Into a very 
 handsome boy, attractive, like all the members of 
 his mother's family, with engaging manners, and 
 what accompanied them: the power of making 
 friends. Fluff could paddle his own canoe, pro- 
 vided, of course, that he kept out of the rapids. 
 
156 THE HILL 
 
 But about the middle of the term John noticed 
 that Fluff was losing colour and spirits, the latter 
 never very exuberant. It was not in John's nature 
 to ask questions which he might answer for himself 
 by taking pains to do so. He watched Fluff closely. 
 Then he demanded bluntly — 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " That's a cram," said John, severely. " I didn't 
 believe you'd tell me a cram, Esme." 
 
 " You don't care tuppence whether I tell crams 
 or not — now." 
 
 John weighed the " now " deliberately. 
 
 " That's another cram," he said slowly. " Has 
 anybody been rotting you ? " 
 
 Silence. John repeated the question. Still silence. 
 Then John added — 
 
 " You know, Esme, that I shall stick to you till I 
 find out what's up ; so you may as well save time by 
 telling me at once." 
 
 " It's Beaumont-Greene," faltered Fluff. 
 
 " That fat beast I What's he done ? " 
 
 " He hasn't done much — ^yet." 
 
 "Tell everything!" 
 
 " He came into my room one night and turned me 
 up in my bed. I woke, on my head, in the dark, 
 half-smothered, and couldn't think what had hap- 
 pened; it was simply awful. Then I heard his 
 beastly voice saying, ' If I let you down, will you do 
 what I ask you ? ' I'd have promised anything to 
 get out of that horrible choking prison, and now he 
 
REFORM 157 
 
 threatens to turn me up every night, and I dream 
 of it " 
 
 " Go on," said John, grimly. " No, you needn't 
 go on. I can guess what this low cad is up to." 
 
 " He said he'd be my friend; as if I'd have a beast 
 like that for a friend." 
 
 " Did you tell him that? " 
 
 " Yes, I did." 
 
 " You're a good-plucked 'un, Esme. And he's 
 made it warm for you ever since? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But he hasn't turned you up again? " 
 
 "N-no; but he will. I'd almost sooner he'd do 
 it, and have done with it. I can't sleep." 
 
 " Now, don't be a silly fool ! " John commanded. 
 " I'm going to think this out, and I'll bet I make 
 that fat, pimply beast sit up and howl." 
 
 " Thanks awfully, John." 
 
 But the more John thought of what he had under- 
 taken to do, the less clearly he saw his way to do it. 
 Evidently Beaumont-Greene was too prudent to 
 bully Fluff; he had resorted to the crueller alterna- 
 tive of terrorizing him. Lawrence would have set- 
 tled this fellow's hash — so John reflected — in a jiffy, 
 but Trieve, " Miss Trieve," was hopelessly incap- 
 able. Presently inspiration came. He seized an 
 opportunity when Beaumont-Greene happened to be 
 by himself; then he marched boldly Into his room, 
 leaving the door ajar. 
 
 " Hullo ! what do you want? " 
 
 Beaumont-Greene was sitting opposite the fire, 
 
158 THE HILL 
 
 reading a novel and leisurely consuming maca- 
 roons. 
 
 " I want you to leave young Kinloch alone — 
 please." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene nearly choked; then he splut- 
 tered out — 
 
 " Say that again, will you? " 
 
 " I want you to leave young Kinloch alone." 
 
 "Really? Anything else ? " 
 
 " Nothing more, thank you." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene slowly raised himself out of his 
 chair and glared at John, whose head came to his 
 chin. 
 
 " You've plenty of cheek." 
 
 " What I have isn't spotty, anyway." 
 
 John saw the veins begin to swell in Beaumont- 
 Greene's throat. He thought with relief of the door 
 ajar, but it was part of his policy — a carefully devised 
 policy — to provoke, if possible, a scene. Then 
 others would Interfere, explanations would be in 
 order, and public opinion would accomplish the 
 rest. 
 
 " You infernal young jackanapes I " 
 
 " You pretty pet 1 " 
 
 " Get out of my room I Hook It 1 " 
 
 " I want to," said John, coolly enough, although 
 his heart was throbbing. " It's horribly fuggy in 
 here, and I've Jambi * to do ; but I'm not going till 
 you give me your word that you'll leave young Kin- 
 loch alone." 
 
 " If you don't walk out I'll chuck you out." 
 
 1 " Jambi " — Iambic verses. 
 
REFORM 159 
 
 " You must catch me first," said John. 
 
 And then a very pretty chase took place. Beau- 
 mont-Greene, fat, scant of breath, full of macaroons, 
 began to pursue John round and round the table. 
 John skilfully interposed chairs, sofa-cushions, any- 
 thing he could lay hands on. Passing the wash- 
 stand, he secured an enormous sponge, which an in- 
 stant later flew souse into the face of the grampus. 
 An abridged edition of LIddell and Scott's Greek 
 Lexicon followed. This nearly brought the big fel- 
 low to grass. In his rage he, too, began to hurl 
 what objects happened to be within reach, but he was 
 a shocking bad shot; he missed, or John dodged 
 every time. John did not miss. Finally, as John 
 had foreseen, a couple of Sixth Form fellows 
 rushed in. 
 
 "What's the meaning of this infernal row?" 
 asked one. 
 
 " Ask him," said John. 
 
 Authority stared at Beaumont-Greene, and then 
 at his wrecked room. 
 
 " I told him to hook it, and he wouldn't," splut- 
 tered the gasping Greene. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Half a dozen other fellows had come into the 
 room. Amongst them the Duffer and the Cater- 
 pillar. 
 
 " I wanted to hook it," John explained, " because 
 it's so beastly fuggy; but Beaumont-Greene wouldn't 
 promise me to do something he ought to do." 
 
 " This Is mysteriousj^" 
 
i6o THE HILL 
 
 " The swaggering young blackguard cheeked me," 
 growled Greene. 
 
 " I was very polite at first," pleaded John. 
 
 " Hook it now, anyway," said Authority. 
 
 " Not till he promises. If you turn me out, I'll 
 come back after you're gone." 
 
 " What is it you want him to promise? " 
 
 John had achieved his object. 
 
 " I want him to leave young Kinloch alone." 
 
 The two Sixth Form boys glanced at each other, 
 at John, at the gross, spotted face of Beaumont- 
 Greene. Then the senior said coldly — 
 
 "I suppose you have no objection, Beaumont- 
 Greene, to promise Verney or any one else that you 
 will leave young Kinloch alone? " 
 
 " I've never laid a finger on the kid," growled the 
 big fellow; but he looked pale and frightened. 
 
 " Then you promise — eh? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " On your word of honour? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 That night John told Fluff with great glee how 
 Beaumont-Greene had been made to sit up — and 
 howl I 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VERNEY BOSCOBEL' 
 " In honour of all who believe that life was made for friendship." 
 
 The immediate result of the incident described in 
 the last chapter was to strengthen the bond between 
 John and Desmond. Desmond had the epic from 
 Fluff, from the Caterpillar, and finally from John 
 himself. 
 
 " You bearded that poisonous beast in his den," 
 exclaimed he ; " you plotted and planned for the 
 scrimmage ; you foresaw what would happen. Well, 
 you are a corker, Jonathan." 
 
 " You'd have thought of something much better." 
 
 " Not I," Desmond replied. 
 
 Scaife, however, made no remarks. Possibly, be- 
 cause Desmond made too many, singing John's 
 praises behind his back and to his face, in and out 
 of season. This, of course, was indiscreet, and led 
 to hard words and harder feelings. Beaumont- 
 Greene realized that John had tarred and feathered 
 him. The fags, you may be sure, rubbed the tar in. 
 If Beaumont-Greene threatened to kick an impudent 
 Fourth Form boy, that youngster would bid him be 
 careful. 
 
 " If you don't behave yourself," he would say, 
 " I shall have to send Verney to your room." 
 
 I6l 
 
i62 THE HILL' 
 
 Lovell remarked that Beaumont-Greene was 
 a "swine," but that Verney had put on "lift" 
 and must be snubbed. What? A boy who had not 
 been two years in the school dared to take the law 
 into his own hands! The matter ought to have 
 been laid before the Head of the House. 
 
 Accordingly, John found himself, much to his dis- 
 may, unpopular with the Olympians. The last month 
 of this term, was in some ways, the most disagreeable 
 he had spent at Harrow. 
 
 But the gain of Desmond's friendship far out- 
 weighed the loss of popularity. John tingled with 
 pleasure when he reflected that he had achieved his 
 ambition to stand between Scaife and Desmond. At 
 the same time, he was uncomfortably aware that 
 Scaife seemed to have climbed high above Desmond, 
 who had stood still. In moments of depression John 
 told himself that he was a makeshift, that Desmond 
 would leave him and join the Demon whenever 
 that splendid young person chose to whistle him 
 
 up- _ 
 
 Scaife had failed to get his Football Flannels, but 
 
 he came so near to beating all previous records that 
 the School began to regard him as a " Blood." He 
 was seen arm-in-arm with Lovell, strolling up and 
 down the High Street and the fags breathlessly re- 
 peated what Desmond had predicted a year ago : the 
 Demon was the coming man. And always, when 
 John and Desmond passed him, John thought he 
 could read a derisive triumph upon the Demon's 
 handsome face, an expression which said plainly: 
 
REFORM 163 
 
 " You young fool, don't you know that I'm playing 
 cat and mouse with you?" 
 
 The three still met twice daily to prepare work. 
 But the moment that was done, Scaife disappeared, 
 leaving John and Desmond together. 
 
 " He's playing bridge in Lovell's room," said 
 Desmond. 
 
 More facts were gleaned from the Caterpillar, 
 who had joined the bridge-players, but played 
 seldom. 
 
 " One draws the line," said he, " at playing for 
 stakes one can't afford to lose. Lovell and the 
 Demon have made it too hot." 
 
 " And Warde will make it hotter," said John. 
 
 " Not he," replied the Caterpillar. " The Demon 
 IS a wonder. Thanks to his brains, detection is im- 
 possible. He suggested that Lovell's room should 
 be used. Warde wouldn't dare to burst in upon 
 one of the Sixth. And you ought to see their dodgy 
 arrangements. Lovell has his younger brother on 
 guard. I'm hanged if the Demon didn't invent a 
 sort of drill, which they go through with a stop- 
 watch. It's a star performance, I tell you. Young 
 Lovell bolts in. In thirty-five seconds — they have 
 got it down to that — the cards and markers are hid- 
 den; and the four of 'em are jawing away about 
 footer." 
 
 " All the same," said John, obstinately, " Warde 
 will be too much for 'em." 
 
 " Oh, rot I " said the Caterpillar. 
 
 The Manor got into the semi-finals of the football 
 
i64 THE HILL' 
 
 matches, and when the School broke up for the 
 Christmas hohdays it was generally conceded that the 
 fortunes of the ancient house were mending. In the 
 Manor itself Warde's influence was hardly yet per- 
 ceptible: only a few knew that it was diffusing 
 itself, percolating into nooks and crevices undreamed 
 of: the hearts of the Fourth Form, for instance. 
 In Dirty Dick's time there had been almost univer- 
 sal slackness. In pupil-room, Rutford read a book; 
 boys could work or not as they pleased, provided 
 their tutor was not disturbed. Warde, on the other 
 hand, made it a point of honour to work with his 
 pupils. His indefatigable energies, his good hu- 
 mour, his patience, were never so conspicuous as when 
 he was coaching duffers. In other ways he made the 
 boys realize that he was at the Manor for their ad- 
 vantage, not his own. The gardens and park were 
 kept strictly private by Dirty Dick. Warde threw 
 them open: a favour hardly appreciated in the win- 
 ter quarter, but the House admitted that it would be 
 awfully jolly in the summer to lie under the trees 
 far from the " crowd." In a word — a " privilege." 
 Upon the last Saturday, to John's delight, Des- 
 mond asked him to spend a week in Eaton Square. 
 John had paid two visits to White Ladies; he was 
 now about to experience something entirely new. 
 White Ladies and Verney Boscobel were typical of 
 the past; they illustrated the history of the families 
 who had inhabited them. The great world went to 
 White Ladies to see the pictures and the gardens, the 
 Gobelin tapestries, the Duchess and her guests; but 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 165 
 
 the same world dined in Eaton Square to see Charles 
 Desmond. 
 
 During this visit, our John first learned what 
 miracles one individual may accomplish. At White 
 Ladies, he had dimly perceived, as has been said, 
 the duties and responsibilities imposed upon rank and 
 wealth. In Eaton Square he saw more plainly the 
 duties and responsibilities imposed upon a man of 
 great talents. Both Charles Desmond and the Duke 
 of Trent were hard workers, but the labours of the 
 duke seemed to John (and to other wise persons) 
 drab-coloured. Charles Desmond's work, in con- 
 trast, presented all the colours of the spectrum. 
 John left White Ladies, thanking his stars that he 
 was not a duke; he came away from Eaton Square 
 filled with the ambition to be Private Secretary to 
 the great Minister. And when Mr. Desmond said 
 to him with his genial smile, " Well, young John, 
 Harry, I hope, will be my secretary, and the crutch 
 of my declining years. But what would you like to 
 be? " John replied fervently, " Oh, sir, I should like 
 to be Harry's understudy." 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 And then John saw the face of his kind host 
 change. The smile faded. Mr. Desmond had taken 
 his answer as John meant it to be taken — seriously. 
 He examined John as if he were already a candidate 
 for office. The piercing eyes probed deep. Then 
 he said slowly, " I should like to have you under me, 
 John. We shall talk of this again, my boy. My 
 Qwn sons " He paused, sighed, and then 
 
1 66 THE HILL 
 
 laughed, tapping John's cheek with his slender, 
 finely-formed fingers. But he passed on without 
 finishing his sentence. John knew that, of Caesar's 
 brothers, Hugo, the eldest, was Secretary of Lega- 
 tion at Teheran; Bill " devilled " for a famous bar- 
 rister; Lionel wore her Majesty's livery. Strange 
 that none had elected to serve his own father 1 Cae- 
 sar explained later. 
 
 " You see," he said, " the dear old governor out- 
 shines everybody. Hugo and the others felt that 
 under him they would be in eclipse, for ever and 
 ever — eh? " 
 
 " I see," said John, gravely. " Yes, there's 
 something in that. He wants you, Caesar." 
 
 " Dear old governor! " the other replied. " Yes 
 — he's keen on that. But I hope to make my own 
 little mark. I'd like to have my name on a brass 
 tablet in Harrow Chapel; that would be something." 
 His eyes began to glow and sparkle. 
 
 Next day, at dinner, Rodney's name cropped up. 
 
 " Rodney paved the way for Nelson," Mr. Des- 
 mond observed. " I look upon him as one of our 
 greatest Harrovians. We ought to have a building 
 to Rodney's memory. I put him before Peel or 
 Byron." 
 
 " Oh, I say, father " Hot protest from 
 
 Caesar. 
 
 " Act before word, Harry ; practice before pre- 
 cept. Rodney was a man of action. I should like 
 to have been Rodney." 
 
 " I should like to have been Sheridan," said C®- 
 
.VERNEY BOSCOBEL 167 
 
 sar. " I often look at his name on the third panel 
 of the Fourth Form Room." 
 
 He glanced at his father, who smiled, knowing 
 that a delicate compliment was intended, for en- 
 thusiastic admirers had spoken of Charles Desmond 
 as the Richard Brinsley Sheridan of the modern 
 House of Commons. The father said curtly — 
 
 " A sky-rocket, my dear Harry." Then he 
 turned to John. " And of all our famous Harro- 
 vians whom would you like to take as a pattern, 
 young John? " 
 
 John hesitated. Two or three of the guests pres^ 
 ent were celebrities. Amongst them was England's 
 greatest critic sitting beside an ambassador. There 
 happened to be a lull In the talk. All looked cur- 
 iously at John. 
 
 " I'd like to be another Lord Shaftesbury," he 
 said slowly. 
 
 " Good ! Capital ! " Mr. Desmond nodded his 
 head. " I knew him well." He poured out anec- 
 dote after anecdote illustrating the character and 
 temperament of the statesman-philanthropist: his 
 self-sacrifice, his devotion to an ideal, his curious ex- 
 clusiveness, his refinement, his faith In an aristocracy 
 never diminished by the Indefatigable zeal wherein 
 he laboured to better the conditions of the poor. 
 " If every rich man were animated by Shaftesbury's 
 spirit," said Mr. Desmond, in conclusion, " extreme 
 poverty would be wiped out of England, and yet we 
 should retain all that makes life charming and profit- 
 able. He was no leveller, save of foul rookeries. 
 
i68 THE HILL 
 
 First and last he believed in order, particularly his 
 own — a true nobleman. And the inspiration of his 
 great career came to him on the Hill." 
 
 "Indeed? "said the Critic. 
 
 " John Verney will tell you all about it," said Mr. 
 Desmond, glancing, cheerily at our hero. His was 
 ever the habit to draw out the humblest of his guests. 
 
 So John recited how young Anthony Ashley, 
 standing on the Hill, just below the churchyard, 
 chanced to see a pauper's cofEn fall to the ground 
 and burst open, revealing the pitiful corpse within, 
 and how he had exclaimed in horror, " Good 
 heavens ! Can this be permitted simply because the 
 man was poor and friendless?" And how, then 
 and there, the boy had sworn to devote his powers to 
 the amelioration of poverty-stricken lives. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Desmond. " He told me that 
 the next fifteen minutes decided his career. Ah, he 
 ' succeeded greatly. Why, when I was at Harrow 
 we used to cross from Waterloo to Euston through 
 some of the worst slums in the world. You boys 
 can't realize what they looked like. And Shaftes- 
 bury's work and example wiped them out of our 
 civilization." * 
 
 When John returned to his uncle's house of 
 Verney Boscobel (his home since his father's death), 
 
 1 There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears 
 the following inscription: — Near this spot Anthony Ashley Cooper 
 Afterwards the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in 
 Harrow School Saw with shame and indignation The pauper's 
 funeral Which helped to awaken his lifelong Devotion to the service 
 of the poor And the oppressed, 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL' 169 
 
 Caesar Desmond accompanied him. Then it seemed 
 to John that his cup brimmed, that everything he 
 desired had been granted unto him. Verney Bos- 
 cobel stood in the heart of the great forest, one of the 
 few large manors within that splendid demesne. 
 The boys arrived at Lyndhurst Road Station late in 
 the evening, long after dusk, and were driven in 
 darkness through Bartley and Minstead up to the 
 high-lying moors of Stoneycross. Next morning, 
 early, John woke his friend, and opened the shutters. 
 
 " Jolly morning," he said. " Have a look at the 
 Forest, old chap." 
 
 Caesar jumped out of bed, and drew a long breath. 
 
 " Ah! " he exclaimed; " it's fairyland." 
 
 Frost had silvered all things below. Above, 
 motionless upon the blue heavens, as if still frozen 
 by the icy fingers of a December night, were some 
 aerial transparencies of aqueous vapour, amethystine 
 in colour, with edges of white foam. In the east, 
 obscured, but not concealed, by grey mist, hung the 
 crimson orb of the sun. From it faint rays shot 
 forth, touching the clouds beneath, which, roused, 
 so to speak, out of sleep, drifted lethargically in a 
 southerly direction. 
 
 " Underneath the young grey dawn 
 A multitude of dense, white fleecy clouds 
 Were wandering in thick flocks, . . . 
 Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind." 
 
 Desmond drew in his breath, sighing with purest 
 delight. From the lawns encompassing the house 
 his eyes strayed into a glade of bracken, gold gleam- 
 
'I70 THE HILL' 
 
 ing through silver — a glade shadowed by noble oaks 
 and beeches, with one birch tree in the middle of it 
 surpassingly graceful. Upon this each delicate 
 bough and spray were outlined sharply against the 
 sky. Beyond the glade stretched the moor, rugged, 
 bleak, and treeless, sloping sharply upward. Be- 
 yond the moor lay the Forest — ^belts of firs darkly 
 purple; and flanking these the irregular masses of 
 oaks and beeches, varying In tint from the palest 
 lavender to rose and brown, some still in shadow, 
 some in ever-increasing glow of sunlight; not one the 
 same, and each in itself containing a thousand differ- 
 ing forms, yet all harmonious parts of the resplen- 
 dent whole. 
 
 " I'm so glad you like my home," said John. 
 " Shall we have a gallop before breakfast? It's 
 only a white frost." 
 
 So they galloped away Into fairyland, returning 
 with mortal appetites to the oak-panelled dining-hall, 
 whence a Verney had ridden forth to join his kins- 
 man, Sir Edmund, in arms for the King upon the 
 distant field of Edge Hill. After breakfast the boys 
 explored the quaint old house; and John showed 
 Caesar the twenty-bore gun, and promised his guest 
 much rabbit-shooting, and two days' hunting, at 
 least, with the New Forest Hounds, and some pike- 
 fishing, and possibly an encounter with a big gray- 
 ling — which, later, the boys saw walloping about In 
 the Test above Broadlands — a splendid fish, once 
 hooked by John, and lost — a three-pounder, of 
 course. 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 171 
 
 O golden age 1 You will never forget that Christ- 
 mas — will you, John? If you live to be Prime Min- 
 ister of England, the memory of those first days 
 alone with your friend will remain green when the 
 colour has been sucked by Time out of everything 
 else. Fifty years hence, maybe, you will see Cae- 
 sar's curly head and his blue eyes full of fun and 
 life, and you will hear his joyous laughter — peal 
 upon peal — echoing through the old rooms of 
 Verney Boscobel. Your mother took him to her 
 heart — didn't she? And all the servants, from but- 
 ler to scuUerymaid, voted him the jolliest, cheeriest 
 boy that ever came to Hampshire. Why, Mrs. Os- 
 man, the cook, with a temper like tinder from too 
 much heat, refused flatly to let Caesar make toffee in 
 her kitchen. But just then a barrel-organ turned up, 
 and before she could open her mouth, Cassar was 
 dancing a polka with her; and after that he could 
 make tofFee, or hay, or anything else, wherever and 
 whenever he pleased. 
 
 When they returned to the Manor, John 
 hoped and prayed that this blessed intimacy would 
 continue. It did — for a time. The three boys got 
 their remove, and found themselves in the Second 
 Fifth, where they proposed to linger till after the 
 summer term. Lovell and Scaife seemed inseparable, 
 and bridge began again, apparently an inexhaustible 
 source of amusement and excitement. Then came 
 the Torpid matches; and John, as Lawrence pre- 
 dicted, was captain of the cock-house Eleven — the 
 
172 THE HILL 
 
 first great victory of the Manorltes. During the 
 term, Scaife and Desmond won no races, being in 
 age betwixt and between winners of Upper and 
 Lower School races. Scaife refused to train. Des- 
 mond took a few runs, but abandoned them for rac- 
 quets, the chief game In the Easter term, but only 
 played regularly by boys whose purses are well lined. 
 John confined his attention to " Squash." Cassar 
 played " Harder " with the Demon. The three 
 worked together as of yore. John now perceived 
 that Scaife had joined a clique pledged to fight Re- 
 form. It was in the air that something might hap- 
 pen. Warde eyed the big fellows shrewdly, as if 
 measuring weapons. He confounded some by ask- 
 ing them to dine with him. At dessert he would 
 talk of sport, or games, or politics — everything, in 
 fine, except " shop." The more worthy came away 
 from these pleasant evenings with rather a hangdog 
 expression, as if they had been receiving goods under 
 false pretences. John and Desmond were made es- 
 pecially welcome. And, after dinner, John, whose 
 voice had not yet cracked, would sing, to Mrs. 
 Warde's accompaniment, such songs as " O Bay of 
 Dublin, my heart you're throublin'," or " Think of 
 me sometimes," or Handel's " Where'er you walk." 
 The Caterpillar made no secret of a passion for Iris 
 Warde, and became a dangerous rival of one of the 
 younger masters. He talked to Warde about gen- 
 ealogies and hunting, topics of conversation In which 
 they had a common interest outside Harrow. John 
 guessed that Warde was making an effort to secure 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 173 
 
 Egerton, who, for his part, took the world as he 
 found it, consorting alike with John and his friends, 
 and also with Lovell and Co. From the Caterpillar 
 John learned that Beaumont-Greene had begun to 
 play bridge. 
 
 " Scaife and Lovell are skinning the beast," he 
 added confidentially. " Green he is, and no error." 
 
 " Ructions soon," said John. 
 
 " I don't believe it," replied the Caterpillar. 
 " Take my word, Warde knows what he's about. 
 He's playing up to the younger members of the 
 house — ^you, Cssar, and you, Jonathan — and he's 
 letting the others slide." 
 
 " Giving 'em rope," said John, "to h^ng 'em- 
 selves." 
 
 " Well, now, there's something in that. That 
 hadn't occurred to me. What? You think that he's 
 eggin' 'em on, eh? Eggin' 'em on! " 
 
 " I think that, if I were you, Caterpillar, I'd cut 
 loose from that gang." 
 
 " They've made it rather warm for you." 
 
 " I don't care a hang about that." 
 
 As a matter of fact, John's life had been made 
 very unpleasant by the fast set. Upon the other hand, 
 the Duffer, Fluff, and many Lower School boys 
 reckoned him their leader and adviser. And — such 
 is the irony of Fate — John's popularity with friends 
 caused him more anxiety than unpopularity with en- 
 emies. Towards the end of the term, Desmond 
 spoke of applying to Warde for a certain room to 
 be shared by himself and John. John had to decline 
 
174 THE HILL 
 
 an arrangement desired passionately, because he had 
 indiscreetly promised not to chuck the Duffer. Cae- 
 sar dropped the subject. After this, John noticed a 
 slight coldness. He wondered whether Cssar were 
 jealous, jealousy being John's own besetting sin. 
 Finally, he came to the conclusion that his friend 
 might be not jealous but unreasonable. In any case, 
 during the last three weeks of the term, John saw less 
 of Caesar, and more — more, indeed than he wanted 
 — of the Duffer and Fluff. 
 
 And then came the paralysing news that Des- 
 mond had promised to spend ten days with Scaife's 
 people, that a Professional had been hired, and that 
 both boys were going to give their undivided en- 
 ergies to cricket. 
 
 Afterwards, John often wondered whether Scaife, 
 with truly demoniac insight into Desmond's charac- 
 ter, had let him go, so as to seize him with more 
 tenacious grasp when an opportunity presented it- 
 self. 
 
 As soon as John saw Caesar after the Easter holi- 
 days, he knew that, temporarily, at any rate, he had 
 lost his friend. Cassar, indeed, was demonstratively 
 glad to see him, and dragged him off next day to 
 walk to a certain bridge where a few short weeks 
 before the boys had carved their names upon the 
 wooden railing, surrounding them with a circle and 
 the Crossed Arrows. But Caesar could talk of noth- 
 ing else but Scaife and cricket. They had both 
 " come on " tremendously. Scaife's people had a 
 splendid cricket-ground. 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 175 
 
 Poor John! If he could have submerged the 
 Scaife cricket-ground and the Scaife family by nod- 
 ding his head, I fear that he would have nodded it, 
 although he told himself that he was an ungenerous 
 beast and cad not to sympathize with his pal. 
 
 And before the boys got back to the Manor, 
 Csesar said, not without a blush, that he had learned 
 to play bridge. 
 
 " I shall teach you, Jonathan." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I say — ^yes." 
 
 " You're not going to play with Lovell and that 
 beast Beaumont-Greene?" 
 
 " The Demon says no cards this term, when lock- 
 up's late. And look here, Jonathan, I've made the 
 Demon promise to make the peace between Lovell 
 and you. You'll play for the House, of course, and 
 we must all pull together, as Warde says." 
 
 John might have smiled at this opportune mention 
 of Warde, but sense of humour was swamped in 
 apprehension. Desmond went on to talk about 
 Scaife. 
 
 " He'll make 'em sit up, you see ! The ' pro.' we 
 had is the finest cover-point in England. I never 
 saw such a chap. He dashes at the ball. Hit it as 
 hard as you please, he runs in, picks it up, and snaps 
 it back to the wicket-keeper as easy as if he was 
 playing pitch and toss. And, by Jove! the Demon 
 can do it. You wait. I never saw any fellow like 
 him'. He's only just sixteen, and he'll get his Flan- 
 nels. You needn't shake your old head, I know he 
 
176 THE HILL 
 
 will. And we must work like blazes to get ours next 
 summer." 
 
 John discounted much of this talk, but he soon 
 found out that Caesar had not overestimated the 
 Demon's activity. The draw at Lord's in the pre- 
 vious summer had been attributed, by such experts 
 as Webbe and Hornby, to bad fielding. The Demon 
 told John, with his hateful derisive smile, that he 
 had remembered this when he selected a " pro." 
 Not for the first time, John realised Scaife's over- 
 powering ability to achieve his own ends. Who, but 
 Scaife, would have made fielding the principal object 
 of his holiday practice? 
 
 Within a fortnight, Scaife was put into the Sixth 
 Form game. Desmond found himself — thanks to 
 Scaife — playing in the First Fifth game but John 
 A^as placed in Second Fifth Beta. Fortunately, he 
 found an ally in Warde, who had a private pitch in 
 the small park surrounding the Manor, where he 
 coached the weaker players of his House. John 
 told himself that he ought to get his " cap " ; but, as 
 the weeks slipped by, despite several creditable per- 
 formances, he became aware that the " cap " was 
 withheld, although it had been given to Fluff. There 
 were five vacancies in the House Eleven; but, ac- 
 cording to precedent, these need not be filled up till 
 after the last House-match, and possibly not even 
 then. In a word, John might play for the House, 
 and even distinguish himself, without receiving the 
 coveted distinction. How sore John felt! 
 
 About the end of May he noticed that something 
 
yERNEY BOSCOBEL 177 
 
 was amiss with Caesar. Generally they walked to- 
 gether on Sunday, but not always. During these 
 walks, as has been said, Caesar did most of the talk- 
 ing. Now, of a sudden, he became a half-hearted 
 listener, and to John's repeated question, " What's 
 up ? " he would reply irritably, " Oh, don't bother — 
 nothing." 
 
 Finally, John heard from the Caterpillar that 
 Caesar was playing bridge, and losing. 
 
 "They don't play often," the Caterpillar added; 
 " but on wet afternoons they make up for lost time. 
 Cssar is outclassed. I've told him, but he's mad 
 keen about the game." 
 
 Later, John learned from the same source that 
 Sunday afternoon was a bridge-fixture with Lovell 
 and Co. At any rate, Caesar did not play on Sunday. 
 That was something. 
 
 Upon the following Saturday, after making an 
 honest fifteen runs and taking three wickets in a 
 closely-contested game, John was running Into the 
 Yard just before six Bill, when Lovell stopped him. 
 
 " You can get your ' cap,' " he said coldly. 
 
 "Oh, thanks; thanks awfully! " 
 
 Caesar received this agreeable news with indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 " You ought to have had it before Fluff," he 
 growled. 
 
 " To-morrow, we'll walk to John Lyon's farm," 
 said John, eagerly. 
 
 " Engaged," Caesar replied. 
 
 " Oh, Caesar, you're — you're " 
 
178 THE hill; 
 
 "Weill" 
 
 " You're going to play bridge? " 
 
 "Yes. What of It? It's only once in a way. I 
 do bar cards on Sunday; but there are reasons." 
 
 "What reasons?" 
 
 " Reasons which — er — I'll keep to myself." 
 
 " All right," said John, stiffly, but with a breaking 
 heart. 
 
 Next day he asked Fluff to walk with him, but 
 Fluff was walking with some one else. The Duffer 
 had letters to write, and stigmatized walking as a 
 beastly grind. John determined to walk by himself ; 
 but as he was leaving the Manor he met the Cater- 
 pillar, a tremendous buck, arrayed in his best — pat- 
 ent-leather boots, white waistcoat, a flow^er in his 
 buttonhole. 
 
 " Where are you off to, Jonathan? " 
 
 " To Preston. You'd better come, Caterpillar." 
 
 " I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 
 em. 
 
 " Change 'em, can't you ? " 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 While he was absent, John seriously considered 
 the propriety of taking Egerton into his confidence. 
 Sincerely attached to Egerton, and valuing his ad- 
 vice, he knew, none the less, that the Caterpillar 
 looked at everybody and everything with the eyes 
 of a colonel in the Guards. To tell Colonel Eger- 
 ton's son that one's heart was lacerated because 
 Cffisar Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday, 
 seemed to invite jeers. And, besides, that wasn't 
 
iVERNEY BOSCOBEL 179 
 
 the real reason. John felt wretched because the 
 Sunday walk had been sacrificed to Moloch. Pres- 
 ently Egerton came downstairs, spick and span, but 
 not quite so smart. The boys walked quickly, talking 
 of cricket. 
 
 " The Demon'U get his Flannels," said Egerton. 
 " I'm glad Lovell gave you your cap, Jonathan; you 
 deserved it a month ago. It wasn't my fault you 
 didn't get it at the beginning of the term." 
 
 " I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully. 
 
 " You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin 
 improves your face, my dear fellow." 
 
 At this John burst into explosive speech. Those 
 beasts had got hold of Caesar. The Caterpillar 
 stared; he had never heard John let himself go. 
 John's vocabulary surprised him. 
 
 " Whew-w-w," he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, 
 you do pile on the agony ! Caesar's all right. Don't 
 worry." 
 
 " He's not all right. I thought Caesar had back- 
 bone, I " 
 
 " Hold on," said the Caterpillar, gravely. 
 
 John thought he was about to be rebuked for dis- 
 loyalty to a pal, an abominable sin in the Cater- 
 pillar's eyes. 
 
 "Well?" said John. 
 
 " I'm going to tell you something," said Egerton, 
 " But you must swear not to give me away." 
 
 " I'll swear." 
 
 " You're a good little cove, Jonathan, but some- 
 times you smell just a little bit of — er — bread and 
 
ii8o THE HILL 
 
 butter. Keep cool. Personally, I would sooner that 
 you, at your age, did smell of bread and butter than 
 whisky. Well, you think that Caesar is going straight 
 to the bow-wows because he plays bridge. You accuse 
 him in your own little mind of feebleness, and so 
 forth. Yes, just so. And it's doosid unfair toCssar, 
 because he's given up his walk to-day entirely on 
 your account. Ah! I thought that would make you 
 sit up." 
 
 " My account? " John repeated blankly. 
 
 " Yes ; Caesar would be furious if he knew that 
 I was peaching, but he won't know, and instead of 
 this — er — trifling affair weakening your good opin- 
 ion of your pal, it will strengthen it." 
 
 " Oh, do go on. Caterpillar! " 
 
 " Yesterday I was in Lovell's room. We were 
 talking of the first House match. Scaife and Caesar 
 were there. I took it upon myself to say you ought to 
 be given your ' cap ' ; and then Caesar burst out, ' Oh 
 yes, Lovell, do give him his " cap." If you knew how 
 he'd slaved to earn it.' But Lovell only laughed. 
 And then Scaife chipped in, ' Look here, Caesar,' he 
 said, ' do I understand that you put this thing, which 
 after all is none of your business or mine, as a favour 
 which Lovell might do you? ' And Caesar answered, 
 ' You can put it that way, if you like, Demon.' And 
 then Scaife laughed. I don't like Scaife's laugh, 
 Jonathan." 
 
 " I loathe it," said John. 
 
 " Well, when Scaife laughed, Lovell looked first 
 at him and then at Caesar. It came to me that Lovell 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL i8i 
 
 was primed to say something. At any rate, he turned 
 to Caesar, and said slowly, ' Tit for tat. If I do this 
 for you, will you do something for me? ' And 
 Csesar spoke up as usual, without a second's hesita- 
 tion, ' Of course, I will.' And then Scaife laughed 
 again, just as Lovell said, ' All right, I'll give Verney 
 his " cap " before tea, and you will make a fourth 
 at bridge with us to-morrow afternoon.' " 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " groaned John. 
 
 " Dash it all, don't look so wretched ! There's 
 not much more. Cassar hesitated a moment. Then 
 he said quietly enough, ' Done I ' Personally, I don't 
 think Lovell was playing — well — cricket, but I do 
 know that he wanted a fourth at bridge, because 
 I'd just refused to make that fourth myself. They 
 play too high for me." 
 
 " It's awfully good of you to have told me this." 
 
 " Pray don't mention it 1 Hullo ! What's up 
 now? " 
 
 John's face was very red, and his fists were 
 clenched. 
 
 " Nothing," he gasped. " Only this — I'd like to 
 kill Scaife. I'd like to cut off his Infernal head." 
 
 The Caterpillar laughed Indulgently. " Jona- 
 than, you're a rum 'un. You think it wicked to play 
 cards on Sunday; but you would like " — ^he imitated 
 John's trembling, passionate voice — " you would 
 like to cut off Scaife's Infernal head." 
 
 " Yes — I would," said John. 
 
 That same week he had a memorable talk with 
 iWarde; recorded because it illustrates Warde's 
 
i82 THE HILL' 
 
 methods, and because, ultimately, it came to be 
 regarded by John as the turning-point of his intel- 
 lectual life. Since he had taken the Lower Remove, 
 John's energies of mind and body had been concen- 
 trated upon improving himself at games. Vaguely 
 aware that some of the School-prizes were within 
 his grasp, he had not deemed them worth the win- 
 ning. To him, therefore, Warde abruptly began — 
 
 *' You pride yourself upon being straight — eh, 
 Verney? " 
 
 "Why, yes," said John, meeting Warde's blue 
 eyes not without misgiving. 
 
 " Well, to me, you're about as straight as a note 
 of interrogation. I never see you without saying to 
 myself, ' Is Verney going to bury his talents in the 
 cricket ground? ' " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Some parents, too many of them, send their boys 
 here to make a few nice friends, to play games, to 
 scrape up the School with a remove once a year. 
 That, I take it, is not what Mrs. Verney wants? " 
 
 " N— no, sir." 
 
 " You ought to be in the Sixth — and you know it. 
 Twice, or oftener, you have deliberately taken 
 things easy, because you wanted a soft time of it 
 during the summer term, and because you wished 
 to remain in the same form with Desmond, who, 
 intellectually, is your inferior. Is that square deal- 
 ing with your people? " 
 
 John was silent, but red in countenance. Warde 
 went on, more vehemently — 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 183 
 
 " I know all about your co-operative system of 
 work. I have a harder name for it. And I know 
 just what you can do, and I want to see you do it, 
 for your own sake, for the sake of Mrs. Verney, 
 and for the Hill's sake. I've pushed you on at 
 cricket a bit, haven't I? Yes. You owe me some- 
 thing. Pay up by entering for a School-prize, and 
 winning itl " 
 
 "A School-prize?" 
 
 " Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. 
 The exam, is next October. I'll coach you. Is It a 
 bargain? " 
 
 He held out his hand, staring frankly, but pierc- 
 ingly, into John's eyes. 
 
 " All right, sir," said John, after a pause, "I'll 
 try." 
 
 " And buck up for your remove." 
 
 John smiled feebly, and sighed. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 BLACK SPaXS 
 
 "The Avon bears to endless years 
 
 A magic voice along, 
 Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shad^ 
 
 And vfaked the world to song. 
 We heard the music soft and wild. 
 
 We thrilled to pulses new; 
 The winds that reared the Avon's child 
 
 Were Herga's i nurses too." 
 
 That evening John told Caesar what Warde had, 
 said to him, and then added, " I mean to have a shot 
 at the ' Swan of Avon.' " Caesar looked glum. 
 
 "But how about the remove? We'd agreed to 
 stay in the Second Fifth till Christmas. It's the jol- 
 liest form in the school." 
 
 " If we put our backs — and heads — Into Trials,* 
 we can easily get a remove." 
 
 "Blow Trials!" 
 
 John turned aside. 
 
 " Look here, Jonathan," said Caesar, eagerly. 
 " To please me, give up your swatting scheme ! We 
 can't spoil the end of this jolly term." 
 
 He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affec-> 
 
 1 The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow. 
 3 The terminal examination. 
 184 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 185 
 
 tionately. Never had our hero been so sorely 
 tempted. 
 
 " We must stick together, you and I," entreated 
 Desmond. 
 ■ " No," said John. 
 
 " As you please," Cassar replied coldly. 
 
 A detestable week followed. John tackled his 
 Shakespeare alone, working doggedly. Then quite 
 suddenly, the giant gripped him. He had always 
 possessed a remarkable memory, and as a child he 
 had learnt by heart many passages out of the plays 
 (a fact well known to the crafty Warde) ; but these 
 he had swallowed without digesting them. Now he 
 became keen, the keener because he met with violent 
 opposition from the Caterpillar and the Duffer, who 
 were of opinion that Shakespeare was a " back num- 
 ber." 
 
 John won the prize, and on the following Speech 
 Day saw his mother's face radiant with pride and 
 happiness, as he received the Medal from the Head 
 Master's hands. 
 
 " You look as pleased as If I'd got my Flannels," 
 said John. 
 
 "Surely this Medal Is a greater thing?" 
 
 " Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys." 
 
 " Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, " I know 
 something about Shakespeare, and he's a friend that 
 will stand by you when cricketing days are over." 
 
 " If you're pleased, so am I," said John. 
 
 Scalf e got his Flannels ; and at Lord's his fielding 
 
1 86 THE HILL 
 
 was mentioned as the finest ever seen in a Public 
 School match. John witnessed the game from the 
 top of the Trent coach, and he stopped at Trent 
 House. But he didn't enjoy his exeat, because he 
 knew that Cassar was in trouble. Caesar owed Scaife 
 thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt could not 
 be paid without confession to his father was driving 
 him distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially 
 at Caesar's distress. " Settle when you please," he 
 said; " but, for Heaven's sake, don't peach to your 
 governor! Mine would laugh and pay up; yours 
 will pay up and make you swear not to touch another 
 card while you're at Harrow." 
 
 " Just what he will do," Caesar told John. 
 
 " And the best thing that could happen," John 
 said bluntly. " If you don't cut loose now, it will 
 be much worse next term." 
 
 " Rot," Desmond had replied. " I'm paying the 
 usual bill for learning a difficult game. That's how 
 the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and 
 now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont- 
 Greene, and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, 
 of course, is in another class." 
 
 " And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. 
 It's robbery." 
 
 " Now you're talking bosh." 
 
 The Eton and Harrow match ended in another 
 draw. Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow 
 from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance. 
 A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in 
 a superstitious fancy common enough to persons 
 
VERNEY BOSCOBEL 187 
 
 older than he. " If Harrow wins," he put It to him- 
 self, " Cajsar will triumph; if Eton wins, Cassar 
 will lose." When the match proved a draw, John 
 drew the conclusion that his pal would " funk " tell- 
 ing the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed. 
 
 " I didn't tell the governor," said Caesar, when 
 John and he met. " My eldest brother, Hugo, is 
 coming home, and I shall screw it out of him. He's 
 a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is 
 simply rolling. He'll fork out, I know he will. I 
 feel awfully cheery." 
 
 " I don't," said John. 
 
 He had good reason to fear that Caesar and he 
 were drifting apart. Now he worked by himself, 
 and his voice had broken. A small thing this, but 
 John was sensible that his singing voice touched cor- 
 ners in Caesar's soul to which his speaking voice 
 never penetrated. More, Caesar and he had agreed 
 to differ upon points of conscience other than card- 
 playing. And every point of conscientious difference 
 increases the distance between true friends in geomet- 
 rical progression. Poor Jonathan ! 
 
 But we have his grateful testimony that Warde 
 stood by him. And Warde made him see life at 
 Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde, in- 
 deed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a 
 sort of experiment in moral chemistry, and not with- 
 out fascination for an intelligent boy. Sometimes, 
 it became difficult to follow Warde — members of the 
 Alpine Club said that often it was impossible — be- 
 cause he jumped where others crawled. And he 
 
i88 THE HILL 
 
 clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly 
 short. 
 
 "You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales 
 crumbling away, my boy. And strong sunshine 
 hurts the eyes — at first. Black spots are dancing 
 before you. I know the little devils." 
 
 Or again — 
 
 " This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, 
 won't it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what 
 you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are others " 
 
 " I'm awfully grateful to you, sir." 
 
 " Never mind me." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir? " 
 
 " New Testament ; Matthew ; twenty-fifth chap- 
 ter — I forget verse.^ Look it up. Christ answers 
 your question. Make life easier and happier for 
 some of the new boys. Pass on gratitude. Set it 
 a-roUing. See?" 
 
 John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never 
 gave much of it — half a dozen sentences, a smile, a 
 nod of the head, a keen look, and a striding off else- 
 where. But when John repeated to Cassar what 
 Warde had said, that young gentleman looked uneasy. 
 
 "Warde means well," he said; " and he's doing 
 wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going 
 to make a sort of tin parson of you? " 
 
 " And if he could," said John. 
 
 " You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan." 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 1 " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these 
 My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.'' 
 
BLACK SPOTS 189 
 
 " I say — ^yes." 
 
 " Caesar," said John, in desperation, " perhaps we 
 are sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. 
 And think what it means to me. You've heaps of 
 friends, and I never was first, I know that. You can 
 do without me, but I can't do without you." 
 
 " Dear old Jonathan." Cssar held out his hand, 
 smiling. 
 
 " I'm a jealous ass, Ceesar. And, as for calling 
 me a parson," he laughed scornfully, " why, I'd 
 sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst 
 sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever 
 lived." 
 
 The feeling in John's voice drove Caesar's gay 
 smile from his face. Did he realise, possibly, for the 
 first time, that If John and he remained friends, he 
 might drag John down? Suddenly his face bright- 
 ened. 
 
 " Jonathan," he said gravely, " to please you, I'll 
 not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such 
 good times this last three weeks that you'll forget 
 the rest of it." 
 
 "And what delights can equal those 
 That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
 When one that loves but knows not reaps 
 A truth from one that loves and knows?" 
 
 The Manor played in the cock-house match at 
 cricket, being but barely defeated by Darner's. 
 Everybody admitted that this glorious state of 
 affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker 
 
I9C5 iTHE HILL 
 
 members of the Eleven. Scaife fielded brilliantly, 
 and John, watching him, said to himself that the 
 Demon was irresistible at such times. Warde in- 
 vited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but 
 football, much to every one's amusement. 
 
 " He's right," said the Caterpillar; " we're not 
 cock-house at cricket this year, but we may be at 
 footer." 
 
 John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, 
 and when the School reassembled, he found himself 
 in the First Fifth alone. With satisfaction he re- 
 flected that this was Lovell's last term, and Beau- 
 mont-Greene's too. Warde said a few words at first 
 lock-up. 
 
 " We are going to be cock-house at footer, I 
 hope," he began, " and next term Scaife will show 
 the School what he can do at racquets; but I want 
 more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot 
 of slacking last term. Is it honest? You fellows 
 cost your people a deal of money. And it's well 
 spent, if, if you tackle everything in school life as 
 you tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all." 
 
 " He's giving you what he gave me," said 
 John. 
 
 " Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; 
 " in his room every night after prayers to mug up 
 his form work." 
 
 "What?" Murmurs of incredulity. 
 
 " Fact, 'pon my word ! And he never refuses a 
 ' con ' to a fellow who wants it." 
 
 " He's paid for it," sneered Scaife. 
 
BLACK SPOTS igt 
 
 The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. 
 Yes, of course Warde was paid for it. John caught 
 Scaife's eye. 
 
 " You don't believe that he's in love with his job, 
 as he told us? " 
 
 "Skittles— that!" 
 
 John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw. 
 
 " Skittles, is it? " he echoed. The other boys 
 turned to listen. " Do you think he'd take a better- 
 paid billet? " 
 
 Scaife laughed derisively. " Of course he would, 
 like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance." 
 
 " He has just been offered the Head Mastership 
 of Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand 
 a year I " 
 
 " Pooh! who told you that?" 
 
 " Cssar's father." 
 
 " It's true," said Caesar. 
 
 " And he refused it," said John, triumphantly. 
 
 " Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He 
 marched out of the room, slamming the door. But 
 the Manor, as a corporate body, when it heard of 
 Warde's refusal to accept promotion, was pro- 
 foundly impressed. Thus the term began with good 
 resolutions upon the part of the better sort. 
 
 Very soon, however, with the shortening days, 
 bridge began again. John made no protest, afraid 
 of losing his pal. He called himself coward, and 
 considered the expediency of learning bridge, so as 
 to be In the same boat with Caesar. Caesar told him 
 that he had not asked his brother Hugo for the 
 
192 THE HILL 
 
 thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, had come back 
 from Teheran with a decoration and the air of an 
 ambassador. He spoke of his " services." 
 
 " I knew that Hugo would make me swear not 
 to play again," said Caesar to John, " and, naturally, 
 I want to get some of the plunder back. I am get- 
 ting it back. I raked thirty bob out of Beaumont- 
 Greene last night." 
 
 John said nothing. 
 
 Presently it came to his ears that Caesar was get- 
 ting more plunder back. The Caterpillar, an agree- 
 able gossip, because he condemned nothing except 
 dirt and low-breeding, told John that Beaumont- 
 Greene was losing many shekels. And about the 
 middle of October Caesar said to John — 
 
 "What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly 
 nearly paid off the Demon. And you wanted me to 
 chuck the thing. Nice sort of counsellor." 
 
 " Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot? " 
 
 "You bet," said Caesar; "but that doesn't keep 
 me awake at night. He has got the Imperishable 
 Seamless Whaleskin Boot behind him." 
 
 Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed 
 him sharply. The big fellow was pulpier than ever; 
 his complexion the colour of skilly. Yes; he looked 
 much worried. Perhaps the " Imperishable Boot " 
 lasted too long. And, nowadays, so many fellows 
 wore shoes. Thus John to himself. 
 
 Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked wor- 
 ried, he was worried, hideously worried, and with 
 excellent reason. He had an absurdly, wickedly, 
 
BLACK SPOTS 193 
 
 large allowance, but not more than a sovereign of it 
 was left. More, he owed Scaife twenty pounds, and 
 Lovell another ten. Both these young gentlemen 
 had hinted plainly that they wanted to see their 
 money. 
 
 " I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when 
 Beaumont-Greene asked for time. " I'm going to 
 shoot a lot this Christmas, and the governor makes 
 me pay for my cartridges." 
 
 " So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was 
 quite indifferent to the money, but he liked to see 
 Beaumont-Greene squirm. He continued suavely, 
 " You ought to settle before you leave. Ain't your 
 people in Rome? Yes. And you're going to join 
 'em. Why, hang it, some Dago may stick a knife 
 into you, and where should we be then — hey? Your 
 governor wouldn't settle a gambling debt, would 
 he?" 
 
 This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. 
 He knew that Beaumont-Greene's father was en- 
 deavouring to establish a credit-account with the 
 Recording Angel. Originally a Nonconformist, he 
 had joined the Church of England after he had made 
 his fortune (cf. Shavings from the Workshops of our 
 Merchant Princes, which appeared in the pages of 
 "Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of the 
 Imperishable Boot had taken to endowing churches; 
 and he published pamphlets denouncing drink and 
 gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who 
 (with an eye to backsheesh) had praised his sire's 
 prose somewhat indiscreetly. 
 
194 THE HILL 
 
 " You shall have your confounded money," said 
 Beaumont-Greene violently. 
 
 " Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. " When we 
 asked you to join us " (slight emphasis on the 
 " us ") , "we knew that we could rely on you to settle 
 promptly." 
 
 The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing 
 that he had touched a weak spot ; not a difficult thing 
 to do, if you touched the big fellow at all. A young 
 man of spirit would have told his creditors to go to 
 Jericho. Beaumont-Greene might have said, " You 
 have skinned me a bit. I don't whine about that; 
 I mean to pay up ; but you'll have to wait till I have 
 the money. I'm stoney now." Scaife and Lovell 
 must have accepted this as an ultimatum. But 
 Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride interfered. He 
 had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess 
 himself pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humilia- 
 tion. 
 
 Men have been known to take to drink under the 
 impending sword of dishonour. Beaumont-Greene 
 swallowed instead large quantities of food at the 
 Creameries; and then wrote to his father, saying 
 that he would like to have a cheque for thirty pounds 
 by return of post. He was leaving Harrow, he 
 pointed out, and he wished to give his friends some 
 handsome presents. Young Desmond, for instance, 
 the great minister's son, had been kind to him (Beau- 
 mont-Greene prided himself upon this touch), and 
 Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who 
 would be a power by-and-by, and so forth. . . . To 
 
BLACK SPOTS 195 
 
 confess frankly that he owed thirty pounds gambled 
 away at cards required more cheek than our stout 
 youth possessed. His father refused to play bridge 
 on principle, because he could never remember how 
 many trumps were out. 
 
 The father answered by return of post, but en- 
 closed no cheque. He pointed out to his dear 
 Thomas that giving handsome presents with an- 
 other's money was an objectionable habit. Thomas 
 received a large, possibly too large an allowance. 
 He must exercise self-denial, if he wished to make 
 presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid 
 as usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. 
 There would be time then to reconsider the pro- 
 priety of giving young Desmond a suitable gift, . . . 
 
 Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this 
 letter to Scaife and Lovell. But he saw the Demon's 
 derisive grin, and recoiled from it. 
 
 At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. 
 Beaumont-Greene never resisted temptation. For 
 fun, so he put it, he would write the sort of letter 
 which his father ought to have written, and which 
 would have put him at his ease. It ran thus — 
 
 " My dear Thomas, 
 
 " No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, 
 and a spread or two. I should like my son to do the thing hand- 
 somely. You know better than I how much this will cost, but I am 
 prepared to send you, say twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a 
 purpose. Or, you can have the bills sent to me. 
 "With love, 
 
 " Your affectionate father, 
 
 " George Beaumont-Greene." 
 
196 THE HILL 
 
 Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, 
 rather fancied himself as a letter-writer. The longer 
 he looked at his effusion, the more he liked It. His 
 handwriting was not unlike his father's — ^modelled, 
 indeed, upon it. With a little careful manipulation 
 of a few letters ! 
 
 The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly 
 found himself in a perspiration. None the less, it 
 seemed easier to forge a letter than to avow himself 
 penniless. Detection ? Impossible ! Two or three 
 tradesmen in Harrow would advance the money if 
 he showed them this letter. Next Christmas they 
 would be paid. Within a quarter of an hour he 
 made up his mind to cross the Rubicon, and crossed 
 it with undue haste. He forged the letter, placed 
 It in an envelope which had come from Rome, and 
 went to his tailor's. 
 
 Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the 
 man aside. 
 
 " You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual 
 heavy, hesitating manner. 
 
 " With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. 
 Then, seeing an opportunity, he added, " You are 
 leaving Harrow, Mr. Beaumont-Greene, but I trust, 
 sir, you will not take your custom with you. We 
 have always tried to please you." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced the 
 letter, envelope and all. " I have here a letter from 
 my father, who is in Rome. I'll read It to you. No ; 
 you can read It yourself." 
 
BLACK SPOTS 1197 
 
 The tailor read the letter. 
 
 " Very handsome," he replied; "very handsome 
 indeed, sir. Your father is a true gentleman." 
 
 " It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more 
 easily, for the thing seemed to be simpler than he 
 had anticipated — " it happens that I do want to 
 make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them 
 here. I shall send to the Stores, you know. I have 
 their catalogue." 
 
 " Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for 
 nearly everything; except, perhaps, my line." 
 
 " I should not think of buying clothes there. But 
 at the Stores one must pay cash. I've not got the 
 cash, and my father is in Rome. I should like to 
 have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige 
 me?" 
 
 The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have 
 been grave scandals connected with lending money 
 to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the mercy 
 of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out 
 of bounds, he can put up his shutters at once. 
 Still 
 
 " I'll let you have the money," said the man, 
 eying Beaumont-Greene keenly. 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden 
 intake of breath — signs which stirred suspicion. 
 
 "Will you take it in notes, sir?" 
 
 Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. 
 He had an ill-defined idea that paper was dangerous 
 stuff. 
 
198 THE HILL 
 
 " In gold, please." 
 
 He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. 
 The tailor hesitated, but he had gone too far to 
 back out. 
 
 " Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five 
 pounds " 
 
 " Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty," 
 
 " I have not quite that amount here, but I can 
 get it." 
 
 When the man came back with a small canvas bag 
 in his hand, Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the 
 letter. He received the money, counted it, thanked 
 the tailor, and turned to go. 
 
 "If you please, sir " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. 
 As a form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll re- 
 turn it. If — if anything should happen to — to you, 
 sir, where would I be? " 
 
 Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself. 
 
 " You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he 
 said. 
 
 The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested 
 to this large, unwholesome youth the possibility of 
 premature decease. 
 
 " Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of 
 shadders. My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty 
 a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only 
 last month ; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his 
 third egg." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene said loftily, " Blow your 
 
BLACK SPOTS 1199 
 
 wife's step-father and his third egg. Here's the 
 letter." 
 
 He flung down the letter and marched out of the 
 shop. The tradesman looked at him, shaking his 
 head. " He'll never come back," he muttered. " I 
 know his sort too well." Then, business happening 
 to be slack, he re-read the letter before putting it 
 away. Then he whistled softly and read it for the 
 third time, frowning and biting his lips. The 
 " Beaumont-Greene " in the signature and on the 
 envelope did not look to be written by the same hand. 
 
 " There's something fishy here," muttered the 
 tradesman. " I must show this to Amelia." 
 
 It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. 
 The chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia 
 was the power behind the throne. Amelia read the 
 letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared 
 hard at the envelope, and delivered herself — 
 
 " The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote 
 the letter, that's plain — to me. Now, William, 
 you've got me and the children to think of. This 
 may mean the loss of our business, and worse too. 
 You put on your hat and go straight to the Manor. 
 Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I don't think he'll 
 let me and the children suffer for your foolishness. 
 Don't you wait another minute ! " 
 
 Nor did he. 
 
 After prayers that night, Warde asked Beau- 
 mont-Greene to come to his study. Beaumont-Greene 
 obeyed, smiling blandly- Within three weeks he was 
 
200 THE HILL 
 
 leaving; doubtless Warde wanted to say something 
 civil. The big fellow was feeling quite himself. He 
 had paid Scaife and Lovell, not without a little par- 
 donable braggadocio. 
 
 " You fellows have put me to some incon'' 
 venience^" he said. " I make it a rule not to run 
 things fine, but' after all thirty quid is no great sum. 
 Here you are ! " 
 
 " We don't want to drive you into the work- 
 house," said Scaife. " Thanks. Give you your re- 
 venge any time. I dare say between now and the 
 end of the term you'll have most of it back." 
 
 Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in 
 a particular chair, which faced the light from a large 
 lamp. Then he took up an envelope. Suddenly cold 
 chills trickled down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He 
 recognized the envelope. That scoundrel had be- 
 trayed him. Not for a moment, however, did he 
 suppose that the forgery had been detected. 
 
 " On the strength of this letter," said Warde, 
 gravely, " you borrowed thirty pounds from a trades- 
 man? " 
 
 Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said — 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen 
 are expressly forbidden to lend boys money? " 
 
 " I am hardly a boy, sir. And — er — ^under the 
 circumstances " 
 
 Warde smiled very grimly. 
 
 " Ah — ^under the circumstances. Have you any 
 objection to telling me the exact circumstances? " 
 
BLACK SPOTS 201 
 
 " Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents 
 to my friends. I am going to give a large leaving- 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Oh ! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum " 
 
 " Not to my father, sir. I — er — thought of com- 
 ing to you, sir, with that letter." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 Warde took the letter from the envelope, and 
 glanced at it with faint interest, so Beaumont-Greene 
 thought. Then he picked up a magnifying glass 
 and played with it. It was a trick of his to pick up 
 objects on his desk, and turn them in his thin nervous 
 fingers. 
 
 Beaumont-Greene was not seriously alarmed. He 
 had great faith in a weapon which had served him 
 faithfully, his lying tongue. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to ad- 
 vance the money for a few days, and then " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It 
 never occurred to me that I was getting a tradesman 
 into trouble. I hope you won't be hard on him, 
 sir." 
 
 " I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, " be- 
 cause " — for a moment his eyes flashed — " because 
 he came to me and confessed his fault; but I won't 
 deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter 
 of an hour. He sat in your chair." 
 
 Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily. 
 
 "Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" 
 asked Warde, casually. 
 
202 THE HILL 
 
 Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in 
 settling. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Some of It? '» 
 
 " None of It." 
 
 "You sent it to London? To buy these hand- 
 some presents? " 
 
 " Ye-es, sir." 
 
 " You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and 
 you received the money In gold. Did you buy 
 Orders?" 
 
 Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He 
 found himself wondering why Warde was speaking 
 In this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his 
 usual curt, incisive tones. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "At the Harrow postoffice? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Ah." 
 
 Again the house-master picked up the letter, but 
 this time he didn't lay down the lens. Instead he 
 used it, very deliberately. Beaumont-Greene shiv- 
 ered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as to 
 prevent them clicking like castanets. Then Warde 
 held up the sheet of paper to the light of the lamp. 
 Obviously he wished to examine the watermark. 
 The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold 
 everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont- 
 Greene, economical in such matters, had bought a 
 couple of quires when his people went abroad. The 
 paper he had bought did not quite match the Roman 
 
BLACK SPOTS 203 
 
 envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from which he 
 took some thin paper. This also he held up to the 
 light. 
 
 " It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; 
 " your father in Rome uses the same notepaper that 
 I buy here. But the envelope is Italian? " 
 
 He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite 
 had lost the power of speech. He collapsed. Warde 
 rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as if it were 
 a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, 
 on edge, sanguine. 
 
 "You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool I 
 Why, a child could find you out. And you — you 
 have dared to play with such an edged tool as for- 
 gery. Now, do the one thing which is left to you: 
 make a clean breast of it to me — at once." 
 
 In imposing this command, a command which he 
 knew would be obeyed, inasmuch as he perceived that 
 he dominated the weak grovelling creature in front 
 of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this 
 boy's confession might implicate other boys. Al- 
 ready he had formed In his mind a working hy- 
 pothesis to account for this forged letter. The 
 fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow 
 townsman. 
 
 " For whom did you steal this money? To whom 
 did you pay it to-day? Answer! " 
 
 And he was answered. 
 
 " I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell." 
 
 Then he told the story of the card-playing. At 
 the last word he fell on his knees, blubbering. 
 
204 THE HILL 
 
 " Get up," said Warde, sharply. " Pull yourself 
 together if you can." 
 
 The master began to walk up and down the room, 
 frowning and biting his lips. From time to time 
 he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter 
 collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-dis- 
 creet Dumbleton. 
 
 " Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the 
 sick-room. There Is no one in it, I believe? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " You will fetch what he may require for the 
 night; quietly, you understand." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 " Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beau- 
 mont-Greene. " You will consider yourself undei 
 arrest. Your meals will be brought to you. You 
 will hold no communication with anybody except 
 Dumbleton and me; you will send no messages; you 
 will write no notes. Do you hear? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then go." 
 
 Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and 
 servant passed out and into the passage beyond. 
 Warde waited one moment, then he followed them 
 into the passage; but instead of going upstairs, he 
 paused for an instant with his fingers upon the han- 
 dle of the door which led from the private side 
 to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed 
 through. 
 
 At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room 
 alone with Scaife. They had no suspicion of what 
 
BLACK SPOTS 205 
 
 had taken place in the study. In the afternoon there 
 had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and 
 both Scaife and Lovell had played for the School. 
 But as yet neither had got his Flannels. As Warde 
 passed through the private side door, Scaife was 
 saying angrily — 
 
 "I believe Challoner " (Challoner was captain 
 of the football Eleven and a monitor) " has a grudge 
 against us. If we had a chance — and we had — of 
 getting our Flannels last year, why isn't it a cert, 
 this, eh?" 
 
 Lovell shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " It is a cert.," he answered; " and you're right. 
 Challoner doesn't like us, and it amuses him to keep 
 us out of our just rights. The monitors know I de- 
 test 'em, and they don't think you're called the 
 Demon for nothing. Challoner Is more of a monitor 
 than a footer-player. How about a rubber? There's 
 just time." 
 
 *' I don't mind." 
 
 Lovell went to the door and opened it. 
 
 "Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!" 
 
 The familiar cry — that imperious call which 
 makes an Harrovian feel himself master of more 
 or less willing slaves — echoed through the house. 
 Immediately the night-fag came running; it was not 
 considered healthy to keep Lovell waiting. 
 
 " Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here 
 
 and " He paused. Warde had just turned the 
 
 corner, and was approaching. Lovell hesitated. 
 Then he repeated what he had just said, with a slight 
 
2o6 THE HILL 
 
 variation for Warde's benefit. " Tell him I want to 
 ask him a question about the house-subscriptions." 
 
 " Right," said the fag, bustling off. 
 
 Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He 
 had very good manners. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you, sir? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered 
 Lovell's room and looked at Scaife, who rose at 
 once. 
 
 " I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell." 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down? " 
 
 Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door, then 
 he said quietly — 
 
 " Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you 
 money? " 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 DECAPITATION 
 
 " Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of 
 the first magnitude ! " 
 
 LovELL betrayed his astonishment by a slight start; 
 however, he faced Warde with a smile. Warde, 
 clean-shaven, alert, with youthful figure, looked but 
 little older than his pupil. For a moment the two 
 stared steadily at each other; then, very politely, 
 Lovell said — 
 
 " No, sir, he does not." 
 
 Warde continued curtly, " Then he has paid you 
 what he did owe you? " 
 
 Lovell nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Plainly, 
 Warde had discovered the fact of the debt. Prob- 
 ably that fool Beaumont-Greene had applied to his 
 father, and the father had written to Warde. It 
 was unthinkable that Warde knew more than this. 
 Having reached this conclusion, Lovell turned over 
 in his mind two or three specious lies that might 
 meet the exigency. 
 
 *' Yes," he replied, with apparent frankness, 
 " Beaumont-Greene did owe me money, and he has 
 paid me." 
 
 ^207 
 
2o8 THE HILL 
 
 After a slight pause, Warde said quietly, " It is 
 my duty, as your tutor, to ask you how Beaumont- 
 Greene became indebted to you? " 
 
 " I lent him the money," said Lovell. 
 
 "Ah! Please call 'Boy.'" 
 
 Lovell went into the passage. Had he an intui- 
 tion that he was about to call " Boy " for the last 
 time, or did the pent-up excitement find an outlet in 
 sound? He had never called " Boy " so loudly or 
 clearly. The night-fag scurried up again. 
 
 " Tell him to send Scaife here," said Warde. 
 
 Lovell's florid face paled. Scaife would intro- 
 duce complications. And yet, if it had come to 
 Warde's ears that Beaumont-Greene was in debt to 
 two of his school-fellows, and if he had found out 
 the name of one, it was not surprising that he knew 
 the name of the other also. As he gave the fag 
 the message, he regretted that Scaife and he 
 could not have a minute's private conversation 
 together. 
 
 " You lent Beaumont-Greene ten pounds, 
 Lovell? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Scaife came in, cool, handsomer than usual be- 
 cause of the sparkle in his eyes. 
 
 " Shut the door, Scaife. Look at me, please. 
 Beaumont-Greene owed you money? " 
 
 Scaife glanced at Lovell, whose left eyelid 
 quivered. 
 
 " Kindly stand behind Scaife, Lovell. Thank 
 you. Answer my question^ Scaife," 
 
DECAPITATION 209 
 
 " Yes, sir; he owed me money." 
 
 " Have you lent him money too? " said Lovell. 
 
 It was admirably done — 'the hint cleverly con- 
 veyed, the mild amazement. Warde smiled grimly. 
 Scaife understood, and took his cue. 
 
 "Yes; I have lent him money," said he, after a 
 slight pause. 
 
 " Twenty pounds? " 
 
 " I believe, sir, that is the amount." 
 
 " And can you offer me any explanation why Beau- 
 mont-Greene, whose father, to my knowledge, has 
 always given him a very large allowance, should 
 borrow thirty pounds of you two? " 
 
 " I haven't the smallest idea, have you, 
 Lovell?" 
 
 " No," said Lovell. " Unless his younger 
 brother, who is at Eton, has got into trouble. He's 
 very fond of his brothers." 
 
 " Um I You speak up for your — friend." 
 
 Lovell frowned. " A friend, sir — no." 
 
 " Of course," said Warde, reflectively, " if it is 
 true that Beaumont-Greene borrowed this money to 
 help a brother " 
 
 He paused, staring at Lovell. From the bottom 
 of a big heart he was praying that Lovell would not 
 lie. 
 
 " Beaumont-Greene certainly gave me to under- 
 stand that the affair was pressing. Having the 
 money, I hadn't the heart to refuse." 
 
 " But you pressed for repayment? " said Warde, 
 sharply. 
 
210 THE HILL' 
 
 "That is true, sir. I'm on an allowance; and I 
 shall have many expenses this holidays." 
 
 " You, Scaife, asked for your money? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Well, between you, you have driven this un- 
 happy wretch into crime." 
 
 " Crime, sir? " 
 
 At last their self-possession abandoned them. 
 Crime is a word which looms large in the imagina- 
 tion of youth. What had Beaumont-Greene done? 
 
 " What crime, sir? " 
 
 Scaife, the more self-possessed, although fully two 
 years the younger, asked the question.' 
 
 " Forgery." 
 
 "Forgery?" Lovell repeated. He was plainly 
 shocked. 
 
 " The idiot! " exclaimed Scaife. 
 
 " Yes — forgery. Have you anything to say? It 
 is a time when the truth, all the truth, might be ac- 
 cepted as an extenuating circumstance. I speak to 
 you first, Lovell. You're a Sixth Form boy — re- 
 member, I have been one myself — and it is your duty 
 to help me." 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir," Lovell replied. " I have 
 never considered it my duty as a Sixth Form boy to 
 play the usher." 
 
 " Nor did I ; but you ought to work on parallel 
 lines with us. You accepted the privileges of the 
 Sixth." 
 
 Lovell's flush deepened. 
 
 " More," continued Warde, " you know that we, 
 
DECAPITATION 211 
 
 the masters, have implicit trust in the Sixth Form, 
 a trust but seldom betrayed. For instance, I should 
 not think of entering your room without tapping on 
 the door; under ordinary circumstances I should 
 accept your bare word unhesitatingly. I say em- 
 phatically that if you, knowing these things, have 
 accepted the privileges of your order with the de- 
 liberate intention of ignoring its duties, you have not 
 acted like a man of honour." 
 
 " Sirl " 
 
 " Don't bluff! Now, for the last time, will you 
 give me what I have given you — trust? " 
 
 " I have nothing more to say," Lovell answered 
 stiffly. 
 
 "Andyou, Scaife?" 
 
 " I am sorry, sir, that Beaumont-Greene has been 
 such a fool. We lent him this money, because he 
 wanted it badly; and he said he would pay us back 
 before the end of the term." 
 
 " You stick to that story? " 
 
 " Why, yes, sir. Why should we tell you a lie? " 
 
 "Ah, why, indeed?" sighed Warde. Then his 
 voice grew hard and sharp. The persuasiveness, the 
 carefully-framed sentences, gave place to his curtest 
 manner. " This matter," said he, " is out of my 
 hands. The Head Master will deal with it. I must 
 ask you for your keys, Lovell." 
 
 " And If I refuse to give them up? " 
 
 " Then we must break into your boxes. Thanks." 
 He took the keys. " Follow me, please." 
 
 The pair followed him into the private side, up- 
 
212 THE HILL 
 
 stairs, and into the sick-room. There were three 
 beds in it; upon one sat Beaumont-Greene. His com- 
 plexion turned a sickly drab when he saw Lovell and 
 Scaife. He even glanced at the window with a 
 hunted expression. The window was three stories 
 from the ground, and heavily barred ever since a boy 
 in delirium had tried to jump from it. 
 
 " Your night-things will be brought to you," said 
 Warde. 
 
 He went out slowly. The boys heard the key turn 
 in the massive lock. They were prisoners. Scaife 
 walked up to Beaumont-Greene. 
 
 '' You told Warde about the bridge ? " 
 
 "Ye-es; I had to. Scaife, don't look at me like 
 that. Lovell " — his voice broke into a terrified 
 scream — " don't let him hit me. I couldn't help it — 
 I swear I ^" 
 
 " You cur ! " said Scaife. " I wouldn't touch you 
 with a forty-foot pole." 
 
 Just what passed between Warde and the Head 
 Master must be surmised. Carefully hidden in 
 Lovell's boxes were found cards and markers. Upon 
 the latter remained the results of the last game 
 played, and under the winning column a rough cal- 
 culation in pounds, shillings, and pence. There were 
 no names. 
 
 Next day, during first school, a notice came round 
 to each Form to be In the Speech-room at 8.30. Not 
 a boy knew or guessed the reason of this summons. 
 The Manorites, aware that three of their House 
 were in the sick-room, believed that an infectious 
 
DECAPITATION 213 
 
 disease had broken out. Only Desmond, John, and 
 the Caterpillar experienced heart-breaking fears that 
 a catastrophe had taken place. 
 
 When the School assembled at half-past eight, the 
 monitors came in, followed by the Head Master in 
 cap and gown. Then, a moment later, the School 
 Custos entered with Scaife. They sat down upon a 
 small bench near the door. Immediately the whis- 
 'pers, the shuffling of feet, the occasional cough, died 
 down into a thrilling silence. The Head Master 
 stood up. 
 
 He was a man of singularly impressive face and 
 figure. And his voice had what may be described as 
 an edge to it — the cutting quality so invaluable to 
 any speaker who desires to make a deep impression 
 upon his audience. He began his address in the 
 clear, cold accents of one who sets forth facts which 
 can neither be controverted nor ignored. Slowly, 
 inexorably, without wasting a word or a second, he 
 told the School what had happened. Then he 
 paused. 
 
 As his voice melted away, the boys moved rest- 
 lessly. Upon their faces shone a curious excitement 
 and relief. Gambling in its many-headed forms is 
 too deeply rooted in human hearts to awaken any 
 great antipathy. So far, then, the sympathy of the 
 audience lay with the culprits ; this the Head Master 
 knew. 
 
 When he spoke again, his voice had changed, 
 subtly, but unmistakably. 
 
 " You were afraid," he said, " that I had some- 
 
214 THE HILL 
 
 thing worse^ — ah, yes, unspeakably worse — to tell 
 you. Thank God, this is not one of those cases from 
 which every clean, manly boy must recoil in disgust. 
 But, on that account, don't blind yourselves to the 
 issues involved. This playing of bridge — a game 
 you have seen your own people playing night after 
 night, perhaps — is harmless enough in itself. I can 
 say more — it is a game, and hence its fascination, 
 which calls into use some of the finest qualities of 
 the brain: judgment, memory, the faculty of mak- 
 ing correct deductions, foresight, and patience. It 
 teaches restraint; it makes for pleasant fellowship. 
 It does all this and more, provided that it never de- 
 generates into gambling. The very moment that the 
 game becomes a gamble, if any one of the players 
 is likely to lose a sum greater than he can reasonably 
 afford to pay, greater than he would cheerfully 
 spend upon any other form of entertainment, then 
 bridge becomes cursed. And because you boys have 
 not the experience to determine the difference be- 
 tween a mere game and a gamble, card-playing is 
 forbidden you, and rightly so. Now, let us consider 
 what has happened. A stupid, foolish fellow, play- 
 ing with boys infinitely cleverer than himself, has lost 
 a sum of money which he could not pay. To obtain 
 the means of paying it, he deliberately forged a letter 
 and a signature. And then followed the inevitable 
 lying — lie upon lie. That is always the price of lies 
 — ' to lie on still.' 
 
 " I would mitigate the punishment, if I could, but 
 I must think of the majority. This sort of malig- 
 
DECAPITATION 215 
 
 nant disease must be cut out. Two of the three 
 offenders are young men; they were leaving at the 
 end of this term. They will leave, instead — to-day. 
 The third boy is much younger. Because of his 
 youth, I have been persuaded by his house-master to 
 give him a further chance." 
 
 Again he paused. Then he exclaimed loudly, 
 "Scaife!" 
 
 Scaife stood up, very pale. " Here, sir! " 
 " Scaife, you will go into the Fourth Form Room,* 
 and prepare to receive the punishment which no 
 member of the Eleven should ever deserve." 
 
 John sat with his Form while the Head Master 
 was addressing the School. Not far off was the 
 Caterpillar, less cool than usual, so John remarked. 
 His collar, for instance, seemed to be too tight; and 
 he moved restlessly upon his chair. Many very 
 brave men become nervous when a great danger has 
 passed them by. Egerton said afterwards, " I felt 
 like getting down a hole, and pulling the hole after 
 me. Not my own. Some Yankee's, you know." 
 Still, he displayed remarkable self-possession under 
 trying circumstances. Two of Lovell's particular 
 friends were seen to turn the colour of Cheddar 
 cheese. But Desmond, so John noticed, grew red 
 rather than yellow. Nor did he tremble, but his fists 
 were clenched and his eyes kindled. 
 
 As Scaife left the Speech-room, followed by 
 Titchener (the provider of birches, whose duty it is 
 
 1 The place of execution. 
 
2i6 THE HILL' 
 
 to see that boys about to be swished are properly 
 prepared to receive punishment), the boys began to 
 shuffle in their places. But the Head Master held 
 up his hand. It was then that Lovell's two par- 
 ticular friends, who had partially recovered, felt that 
 the earth was once more slipping from under 
 them. 
 
 " It takes four to play bridge." The Caterpillar's 
 fingers went to his collar again. - " In this case there 
 must have been a fourth, possibly a fifth and a sixth. 
 Not more, I think, because the secret was too well 
 kept. We are confronted with the disagreeable fact 
 that three boys are going to receive the most severe 
 punishments I can inflict, and that another escapes 
 scot-free. For I do not know the — name — of — the 
 ■ — fourth." 
 
 The Head Master waited to let each deliberate 
 word soak in. Perhaps he had calculated the effect 
 of his voice upon a boy of sensibility and imagina- 
 tion. That Scaife, his friend, should suffer the in- 
 dignity of a swishing, and that he should escape scot 
 free, seemed to Caesar Desmond not a bit of rare 
 good fortune — as it appeared to the others — ^but an 
 incredible miscarriage of justice. To submit tamely 
 to such a burden was unthinkable. He sprang to his 
 feet, ardent, impetuous, afire with the spirit which 
 makes men accept death rather than dishonour; and 
 then, in a voice that rang through the room, thrilling 
 the coldest and most callous heart, he exclaimed — 
 
 " I was the fourth! " 
 
 A curious sound escaped from the audience — a 
 
DECAPITATION 217 
 
 gasp of surprise, of admiration, and of dismay, at 
 least, so the Head Master interpreted it. And look- 
 ing at the faces about him, he read approval or dis- 
 approval, according as each boy betrayed the feeling 
 in his heart. 
 
 " You, Desmond? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 The Caterpillar rose slowly. He was cool enough 
 now. 
 
 " I was the fifth." 
 
 But Lovell's two particular friends sat tight, as 
 they put it. Let us not blame them. 
 
 "You, Egerton?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 For a moment the Head Master hesitated. Into 
 his mind there flashed the image of two notable 
 figures — the fathers whom he had entreated to send 
 sons to the Manor. If — if by so doing he had com- 
 passed the boys' ruin, could he ever have forgiven 
 himself? But now, the boys themselves had justified 
 his action; they had proved worthy of their breeding 
 and the traditions of the Hill. 
 
 " Come here," he said. 
 
 When they stood opposite to him, he con- 
 tinued — ■ 
 
 " You give yourselves up to receive the punish- 
 ment I am about to inflict upon Scalfe? " 
 
 The boys did not answer, save with their eyes. 
 The silence in the great room was so profound that 
 John made sure that the beating of his heart must be 
 heard by everybody. 
 
2i8 THE HILU 
 
 " I shall not punish you. This voluntary confes- 
 sion has done much to redeem your fault. Meet me 
 in my study at nine this evening, and I will talk, to 
 you. When I came here I hardly hoped to find 
 saints, but I did expect to find — gentlemen. And 
 I have not been disappointed." He addressed the 
 others. " You will return to your boarding-houses, 
 and quietly, if you please." 
 
 The immediate and most noticeable effect of 
 Lovell's expulsion was the loss of the next House 
 match. Darner's defeated the Manor easily. Some of 
 the fags whispered to each other that the injuries in- 
 flicted by the Head Master on Scaife had been so 
 severe as to incapacitate the star-player of the House. 
 Two boys had concealed themselves in the Armoury 
 (which is just below the Fourth Form Room) upon 
 the morning when Scaife was flogged. But they 
 reported — nothing. However severe the punish- 
 ment might have been, Scaife received it without a 
 whimper. 
 
 In truth, Scaife received but one cut, and that a 
 light one. The Head Master wished to lay stripes 
 upon the boy's heart, not his body. When he saw 
 him prepared to receive the punishment, he said 
 gravely — 
 
 " I have never flogged a member of the Eleven. 
 And now, at the last moment, I offer you the choice 
 between a flogging and expulsion." 
 
 " I prefer to be flogged." 
 
 dnd then — one cut. 
 
DECAPITATION 219 
 
 But Scaife never forgot the walk from the Yard 
 to the Manor, after execution. He was too proud 
 to run, too proud not to face the boys he happened 
 to meet. They turned aside their eyes from his 
 furious glare. But he met no members of his own 
 House. They had the delicacy to leave the coast 
 clear. When he reached his room, he found Des- 
 mond alone. Desmond said nervously — 
 
 " I asked Warde if we could have breakfast here 
 this morning, instead of going into Hall. I've got 
 some ripping salmon." 
 
 Scaife had faced everything with brazen forti- 
 tude, but the sympathy in his friend's voice over- 
 powered him. He flung himself upon the sofa by 
 the window and wept, not as a boy weeps, but with 
 the cruel, grinding sobs of a man. He wept for 
 his stained pride, for his vain-glory, not because he 
 had sinned and caused others to sin. The boy 
 watching him, seeing the hero self-abased, hearing 
 his heartbreaking sobs, interpreted very differently 
 those sounds. Infinitely distressed, turning over and 
 over in his mind some soothing phrases, some word 
 of comfort and encouragement, Desmond waited till 
 the first paroxysm had passed. What he said then 
 shall not be set down in cold print. You may be 
 sure he proved that friendship between two strong 
 vigorous boys is no frail thread, but a golden chain 
 which adversity strengthens and refines. Scaife rose 
 up with his heart softened, not by his own tears, but 
 by the tears he saw in Desmond's eyes. 
 
 " I'm all right now," he said. Then, with frown- 
 
220 THE HILL 
 
 ing brows, he added thoughtfully, " I deserve what 
 I got for being a fool. I ought to have foreseen that 
 such a swine as Beaumont-Greene would be sure to 
 betray us sooner or later. I shall be wiser next 
 time." 
 
 "Next — time?" The dismay in Desmond's 
 voice made Scaife smile. 
 
 " Don't worry, Caesar! No more bridge for me; 
 but," he laughed harshly, " the leopard can't change 
 his spots, and he won't give up hunting because he 
 has fallen into a trap, and got out of it. Come, let's 
 tackle the salmon." 
 
 The winter term came to an end, and the School 
 broke up. Upon the evening of the last Sunday, 
 Warde said a few words to John. 
 
 " I propose to make some changes in the house," 
 he said abruptly. " Would you like to share No. 7 
 with Desmond? " 
 
 No. 7 was the joUiest two-room at the Manor. 
 It overlooked the gardens, and was larger than some 
 three-rooms. Then John remembered Scaife and 
 the Duffer. 
 
 " Desmond has been with Scaife ever since he 
 came to the house, sir." 
 
 " True. But I'm going to give Scaife a room to 
 himself. He's entitled to it as the future Captain 
 of the Eleven. That is — settled. You and Duff 
 must part. He's two forms below you in the school, 
 and never likely to soar much higher than the Sec- 
 ond Fifth. Next term you will be in the Sixth, and 
 by the summer I hope Desmond will have joined 
 
DECAPITATION 221 
 
 you. You will find ^ together. Of course Scaife 
 can find with you, if you wish. I've spoken to him 
 and Desmond." 
 
 And so, John's fondest hope was realized. When 
 he came back to the Manor, Desmond and he spent 
 much time and rather more money than they could 
 afford in making No. 7 the cosiest room in the 
 house. Consciences were salved thus: — John 
 bought for Desmond some picture or other decora- 
 tive object ■vyhlch cost more money than he felt justi- 
 fied in spending on himself; then Desmond made 
 John a similar present. It was whipping the devil 
 round the stump, John said, but oh! the delight of 
 giving his friend something he coveted, and receiv- 
 ing presents from him in return. 
 
 During this term, Scaife became one of the school 
 racquet-players. In many ways he was admittedly 
 the most remarkable boy at Harrow, the Admirable 
 Crichton who appears now and again in every 
 decade. He won the high jump and the hurdle-race. 
 These triumphs kept him out of mischief, and occu- 
 pied every minute of his time. He associated with 
 the " Bloods," and one day Desmond told John that 
 he considered himself to have been " dropped " by 
 this tremendous swell. John discreetly held his 
 tongue; but in his own mind, as before, he was con- 
 vinced that Scaife and Desmond would come to- 
 gether again. The inexorable circumstance of 
 
 1 " Finding " is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of 
 having breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead ol in 
 Hall. 
 
222 THE HILL 
 
 Scaife's superiority at games had separated the boys, 
 but only for a brief season. Desmond would be- 
 come a " Blood " soon, and then it would be John's 
 turn to be " dropped." Being a philosopher, our 
 hero did not worry too much over the future, but 
 made the most of the present, with a grateful and 
 joyous heart.. In his humility, he was unable to 
 measure his influence on Desmond. In athletic pur- 
 suits an inferior, in all intellectual attainments he 
 was pulling far ahead of his friend. The artful 
 Warde had a word to say, which gave John food 
 for thought. 
 
 " You can never equal your friend at cricket or 
 footer, Verney. If you wish to score, it is time to 
 play your own game." 
 
 Shortly after this, John realized that Warde had 
 read Caesar aright. Charles Desmond's son, as has 
 been said, acclaimed quality wherever he met it. 
 John's intellectual advance amazed and then fasci- 
 nated him. When John discovered this, he worked 
 harder. Warde smiled. John ran second for the 
 Prize Poem. He had genuine feeling for Nature, 
 but he lacked as yet the technical ability to display 
 it. A more practised versifier won the prize; but 
 John's taste for history and literature secured him 
 the Bourchier, not without a struggle which whetted 
 to keenness every faculty he possessed. More, to 
 his delight, he realised that his enthusiasm was con- 
 tagious. Cffisar entered eagerly into his friend's 
 competitions; struggle and strife appealed to the 
 Irishman. He talked over John's themes, read his 
 
DECAPITATION 223 
 
 verses, and predicted triumphs. Warde told John 
 'that Caesar Desmond might have stuck in the First 
 Fifth, had it not been for this quickening of the 
 clay. 
 
 The days succeeded each other swiftly and 
 smoothly. Warde was seen to smile more than ever 
 during this term. Certain big fellows who opposed 
 him were leaving or had already left. Bohun, now 
 Head of the House, was a sturdy, straightforward 
 monitor, not a famous athlete, but able to hold his 
 own in any field of endeavour. Just before the Christ- 
 mas holidays, Warde discovered, to his horror, that 
 the drainage at the Manor was out of order. At 
 great expense a new and perfect system was laid 
 down. At last Warde told himself his house might 
 be pronounced sanitary within and without. 
 
 When the summer term came, Desmond joined 
 John in the Sixth Form. They were entitled to sin- 
 gle rooms, but they asked and obtained permission 
 to remain In No. 7. Desmond was invested with the 
 right to fag, and the right to " find." How blessed 
 a privilege the right to find is, boys who have en- 
 joyed it will attest. The cosy meals in one's own 
 room, the pleasant talk, the sense of Intimacy, the 
 freedom from restraint. Custom stales all good 
 things, but how delicious they taste at first I 
 
 The privilege of fagging is not, however, un- 
 adulterated bliss. When Warde said to Cassar, 
 " Well, Desmond, how do you like ordering about 
 your slave?" Desmond replied, ruefully, "Well, 
 sir, little Duff has broken my Inkstand, spilt the ink 
 
224 THE HILL 
 
 on our new carpet, and let Verney's bullfinch escape. 
 I think, on the whole, I'd as lief wait on myself." 
 
 Early in June it became plain that unless the un- 
 foreseen occurred, Harrow would have a strong 
 Eleven, and that Desmond would be a member of 
 it. John and Fluff were playing in the Sixth Form 
 game; but John had no chance of his Flannels, al- 
 though he had improved in batting and bowling, 
 thanks to Warde's indefatigable coaching. Scaife 
 hardly ever spoke to John now, but occasionally he 
 came into No. 7 to talk to Desmond. Upon these 
 rare occasions John would generally find an excuse 
 for leaving the room. Always, when he returned, 
 Desmond seemed to be restless and perplexed. His 
 admiration for Scaife had waxed rather than waned. 
 Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife — for it had 
 come to that — fearing him on Desmond's account, 
 admired him notwithstanding: captivated by his 
 amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His 
 recklessness held even the " Bloods " spellbound. 
 A coach ran through Harrow in the afternoons of 
 that season. Scaife made a bet that he would drive 
 this coach from one end of the High Street to the 
 other, under the very nose of Authority. The rules 
 of the school set forth rigorously that no boy is to 
 drive In or on any vehicle whatever. Only the Cycle 
 Corps are allowed to use bicycles. Scaife's bet, you 
 may be sure, excited extraordinary interest. He 
 won it easily, disguised as the coachman — a make-up 
 clever enough to deceive even those who were in 
 the secret. His friends knew that he kept two polo- 
 
DECAPITATION 225 
 
 ponies at Wembley. One afternoon he dared to 
 play in a match against the Nondescripts. Warde's 
 daughter, just out of the schoolroom, happened to 
 be present. You may be sure she rubbed her lovely 
 eyes when she saw Scaife careering over the field. 
 Scaife laughed when he saw her; but before she left 
 the ground a note had reached her. 
 
 " Dear Miss WardEj 
 
 " I am sure you have too much sporting blood in 
 your veins to tell your father that you have seen me playing 
 polo. 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Reginald Scaife.'' 
 
 To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Des- 
 mond it indicated genius. 
 
 " There never was such a fellow," said Csesar to 
 John. 
 
 When Cassar spoke in that tone John knew that 
 
 Scaife had but to hold up a finger, and that Caesar 
 
 would come to him even as a bird drops into the 
 
 . jaws of a snake. Caesar was strong, but the Demon 
 
 was stronger. 
 
 After the Zingari March, Desmond got his Flan- 
 nels. He was cheered at six Bill. Everybody liked 
 him; everybody was proud of him, proud of his 
 father, proud of the long line of Desmonds, all dis- 
 tinguished, good-looking, and with charming man- 
 ners. The School roared its satisfaction. John 
 stood a little back, by the cloisters. Caesar ran past 
 him, down the steps and into the street, hat in hand, 
 blushing like a girl. John felt a lump in his throat. 
 
226 THE HILL 
 
 He thrilled because glory shone about his friend; 
 but the poignant reflection came, that Caesar was 
 running swiftly, out of the Yard and out of his own 
 life. And before lock-up he saw, what he had seen 
 in fancy a thousand times, Caesar arm-in-arm with 
 Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, Caesar in his 
 new straw, ^ looking happier than John had ever 
 seen him, Csesar, the " Blood," rolling triumphantly 
 down the High Street, the envied of all beholders, 
 the hero of the hour. 
 
 John called himself a selfish beast, because he 
 had wished for one terrible moment, wished with 
 heart and soul, that Caesar was unpopular and 
 obscure. 
 
 1 The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the 
 School Cricket Eleven. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 SELF-QUESTIONING 
 
 "Friend, of my infinite dreamt 
 
 Little enough endures; 
 Little howe'er it seems, 
 
 It is yours, all yours! 
 Fame hath a fleeting breath, 
 
 Hopes may be frail or fond; 
 But Love shall be Love till Death, 
 
 And perhaps beyond." 
 
 Until the Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow 
 to Baker Street, the Hill stood in the midst of 
 genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five 
 miles of grass from the nearest point of the me- 
 tropolis, and encompassed by isolated dwellings, 
 ranging in rank and scale from villas to country 
 houses.* Most of the latter have fallen victims to 
 the speculative builder, and have been cut up into 
 alleys of brick and stucco. But one or two still re- 
 main among their hayfields and rhododendrons. 
 
 John Verney had an eager curiosity, not common 
 in schoolboys, to know something about the country- 
 side in which he dwelt. As a Lower Boy, whenever 
 released from " Compulsory " and House games, 
 
 1 Of these, the Park, now a boarding-house, was a characteristic 
 ipecimen. It belonged to Lord Northwick, Lord of the Manor of 
 Harrow. 
 
 327 
 
228 THE HILL 
 
 he used to wander with alert eyes and ears up and 
 down the green lanes of Roxeth and Harrow 
 Weald, enjoying fresh glimpses of the far-seen 
 Spire, making friends with cottagers, picking up tra- 
 ditions of an older and more lawless ^ epoch, and, 
 with these, an ever-increasing love and loyalty to 
 Harrow. So Byron had wandered a hundred years 
 before. 
 
 These solitary rambles, however, were regarded 
 with disfavour by schoolfellows who lacked John's 
 imaginative temperament. The Caterpillar, for in- 
 stance, protested, " Did I see you sneaking off by 
 yourself the other day? I thought so; and you 
 looked like a confounded bughunter." The Duffer's 
 notions of topography were bounded by the cricket- 
 ground on the one side of the Hill, and the footer- 
 fields on the other; and his traditions held nothing 
 much more romantic than A. J. Webbe's scores at 
 Lord's. Fluff, as has been said, was too far re- 
 moved from John to make him more than an occa- 
 sional companion. And so, for several terms, John, 
 for the most part, walked alone. By the time Des- 
 mond joined him, he had gleaned a knowledge 
 which fascinated a friend of like sensibility and 
 imagination. Together they revisited the old and 
 explored the new. One never-to-be-forgotten day 
 the boys discovered a deserted house of some pre- 
 
 1 In the thirties Harrow boys played " Jack o' Lantern," or 
 nocturnal hare and hounds. They used to attend Kingsbury Races 
 and Sudbury Fair. Lord Alexander Russell when he was a boy at 
 the Grove, kept a pack of beagles at the foot of the Hill. 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 229 
 
 tensions about a mile from the Hill. Its grounds, 
 covering several acres, were enclosed by a high oak 
 paling, within which stood a thick belt of trees, 
 effectually concealing what lay beyond. Grim iron 
 gates, always locked, frowned upon the wayfarer; 
 but John, flattening an inquisitive nose against the 
 ironwork, could discern a carriage-drive overgrown 
 with grass and weeds, and at the end of it a white 
 stone portico. After this the place became to both 
 boys a sort of Enchanted Castle. A dozen times 
 they peered through the gates. No one went in or 
 out of the grass-grown drive. The gatekeeper's 
 lodge was uninhabited; there were no adjacent 
 cottages where information might be sought. The 
 boys called it " The Haunted House," and peopled 
 It with ghosts; gorgeous bucks of the Regency, lan- 
 guishing beauties such as Lawrence painted, fiery 
 politicians, duellists, mysterious black-a-vized for- 
 eigners. John connected it in fancy with the days 
 when the gorgeous Duke of Chandos (who had 
 Handel for his chapel-organist and was a Governor 
 of Harrow and guardian of Lord Rodney) kept 
 court at Cannons. He told Caesar anecdotes of Dr. 
 Parr, with his preposterous wig, his clouds of to- 
 bacco, his sesquipedalian quotations, coming down 
 from Stanmore; and also of the great Lord Aber- 
 corn, another Governor of the school, who used to 
 go out shooting in the blue riband of the Garter, and 
 who entertained Pitt and Sir Walter Scott at Bent- 
 ley Priory. 
 
 " What a lot you know," said Caesar. " And you 
 
230 THE HILL 
 
 have a memory like my father's. I'm beginning to 
 think, Jonathan, that you'll be a swell like him some 
 day — in the Cabinet, perhaps." 
 
 " Ah," said John, with shining eyes. 
 
 " I hope I shall live to see it," Desmond added, 
 with feeling. 
 
 " Thanks, old chap. A crust or a triumph shared 
 with a pal tastes twice as good." 
 
 One soft afternoon in spring, after four Bill, Des- 
 mond and John were approaching the iron gates of 
 the Haunted House. They had not taken this par- 
 ticular walk since the day when Desmond got his 
 Flannels. During the winter term, Scaife and Des- 
 mond became members of the Football Eleven. 
 During this term Scaife won the hundred yards and 
 quarter-mile; Desmond won the half-mile and mile. 
 In a word, they had done, from the athletic point of 
 view, nearly all that could be done. A glorious vic- 
 tory at Lord's seemed assured. Scaife, Captain and 
 epitome of the brains and muscles of the Eleven, 
 had grown into a powerful man, with the mind, the 
 tastes, the passions of manhood. Desmond, on the 
 other hand, while nearly as tall (and much hand- 
 somer in John's eyes), still retained the look of 
 youth. Indeed, he looked younger than John, al- 
 though a year his senior; and John knew himself to 
 be the elder and wiser, knew that Desmond leaned 
 upon him whenever a crutch was wanted. 
 
 The chief difficulty which besets a school friend- 
 ship between two boys is that of being alone to- 
 gether. In Form, in the playing-fields, in the board- 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 231 
 
 ing-house, life is public. Even in the most secluded 
 lane, a Harrow boy is not secure against the unwel- 
 come salutations of heated athletes who have been 
 taking a cross-country run, or leaping over, or into, 
 the Pinner brook. To John the need of sanctuary 
 had become pressing. 
 
 Upon this blessed spring afternoon — ever after- 
 wards recalled with special affection — a retreat was 
 suddenly provided. As the boys jumped over the 
 last stile into the lane which led to the Haunted 
 House, Desmond exclaimed — 
 
 " By Jove, the gates are open! " 
 ■ Then they saw that a man, a sort of caretaker, 
 was in the act of shutting them. 
 
 " May we go in? " John asked civilly. 
 
 The man hesitated, eying the boys. Desmond's 
 smile melted him, as it would have melted a 
 mummy. 
 
 " There's nothing to see," he said. 
 
 Then, in answer to a few eager questions, he told 
 the story of the Haunted House; haunted, indeed, 
 by the ghosts of what might have been. A city mag- 
 nate owned the place. He had bought it because he 
 wished to educate his only son at Harrow as a 
 " Home-Boarder," or day-boy. A few weeks be- 
 fore he should have joined the school, the boy 
 caught diphtheria and died. The mother, who 
 nursed him, caught the disease and died also. The 
 father, left alone, turned his back upon a place he 
 loathed, resolving to hold it till building-values in- 
 creased, but never to see it again. The caretaker 
 
232 THE HILL 
 
 and his wife occupied a couple of rooms In the 
 house. 
 
 The boys glanced at the house, a common-place 
 mansion, and began to explore the gardens. To 
 their delight they found in the shrubberies, now a 
 wilderness of laurel and rhododendron, a tower — 
 what our forefathers called a " Gazebo," and their 
 neighbours a " Folly." The top of it commanded 
 a wide, unbroken view — 
 
 " of all the lowland western lea. 
 
 The Uxbridge flats and meadowi 
 To where the Ruislip waters see 
 The Oxhey lights and shadows." 
 
 *' There's the Spire," said John. 
 
 The man, who had joined them, nodded. " Yes," 
 said he, " and my mistress and her boy are buried 
 underneath it. She wanted him to be there — at the 
 school, I mean — and there he is." 
 
 " We're very much obliged to you," said Des- 
 mond. He slipped a shilling into the man's hand, 
 and added, " May we stay here for a bit? And per- 
 haps we might come again — eh? " 
 
 " Thank you, sir," the man replied, touching his 
 hat. " Come whenever you like, sir. The gates 
 ain't really locked. I'll show you the trick of open- 
 ing 'em when you come down." 
 
 He descended the steep flight of steps after the 
 boys had thanked him. 
 
 " Sad story," said John, staring at the distant 
 Spire, 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 233 
 
 Desmond hesitated. At times he revealed (to 
 John alone) a curious melancholy. 
 
 " Sad," he repeated. " I don't know about that. 
 Sad for the father, of course, but perhaps the son 
 is well out of it. Don't look so amazed, Jonathan. 
 Most fellows seem to make awful muddles of their 
 lives. You won't, of course. I see you on pinnacles, 
 but I " He broke off with a mirthless laugh. 
 
 John waited. The air about them was soft and 
 moist after a recent shower. The southwest wind 
 stirred the pulses. Earth was once more tumid, 
 about to bring forth. Already the hedges were green 
 under the brown ; bulbs were pushing delicate spears 
 through the sweet-smelling soil; the buds upon a 
 clump of line beeches had begun to open. In this 
 solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to 
 interpret his friend's mood; but the spirit of mel- 
 ancholy eluded him, as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp 
 dancing over an impassable, marsh. Suddenly, there 
 came to him, as there had come to the quicker im- 
 agination of his friend, the overpowering mystery 
 of Spring, the sense of inevitable change, the impos- 
 sibility of arresting it. At the moment all things 
 seemed unsubstantial. Even the familiar Spire, 
 powdered with gold by the slanting i:ays of the sun, 
 appeared thinly transparent against the rosy mists 
 behind it. The Hill, the solid Hill, rose out of the 
 valley, a lavender-coloured shade upon the horizon. 
 
 " He came here," continued Desmond, dreamily 
 — John guessed that he was speaking of the father 
 — " a rich, prosperous man. I dare say he worked 
 
234 THE hill; 
 
 like a slave in the city. And he t?anted peace and 
 quiet after the Stock Exchange. Who wouldn't? 
 And he planted out these gardens, thinking that 
 every plant would grow up and thrive, and his son 
 with them. And then the boy died; and the wife 
 followed; and the enchanted castle became a place of 
 horror; and now it is a wilderness. Haunted? I 
 should think it was haunted ! I wish we'd never 
 set foot in it. There's a curse on it." 
 
 " Let's go," said John. 
 
 " Too late. We'll stay now, and we'll come 
 again, every Sunday. Wild and desolate as things 
 look, they will be lovely when we get back in sum- 
 mer. Don't talk. I'm going to light a pipe." 
 
 Through the circling cloud of tobacco-smoke John 
 stared at the face which had illumined nearly every 
 hour of his school-life. Its peculiar vividness al- 
 ways amazed John, the vitality of it, and yet the 
 perfect delicacy. Scaife's handsome features were 
 full of vitality also, but coarseness underlay their 
 bold lines and peered out of the keen, flashing eyes. 
 When the Caterpillar left Harrow he had said to 
 John — 
 
 " Good-bye, Jonathan. Awful rot your going to 
 such a hole as Oxford! One has quite enough 
 schooling after five years here. It's settled I'm go- 
 ing into the Guards. My father tells me that old 
 Scaife tried to get the Demon down on the Duke's 
 list. But we don't fancy the Scaife brand." 
 
 Often and often John wondered whether Des- 
 mond saw the braad as plainly as the Caterpillar 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 235 
 
 and he did. Sometimes he felt almost sure that a 
 word, a look, a gesture betraying the bounder, had 
 revolted Desmond; but a few hours later the 
 bounder bounded into favour again, captivating eye 
 and heart by some brilliant feat. And then his 
 brains ! He was so diabolically clever. John could 
 always recall his face as he lay back in the chair in 
 No. 15, sick, bruised, befuddled, and yet even in 
 that moment of extreme prostration able to " play 
 the game," as he put it, to defeat house-master and 
 doctor by sheer strength of will and Intellect. It 
 was Scaife who had persuaded Desmond to smoke 
 . . . Caesar's voice broke in upon these medita- 
 tions. 
 
 " I say — ^what are you frowning about? " 
 
 John, very red, replied nervously, " Now that 
 you're in the Sixth, you ought to chuck smoking." 
 
 "What rot!" said Csesar. "And here, in this 
 tower, where one couldn't possibly be nailed " 
 
 " That's it," said John. " It's just because you 
 can't possibly be nailed that it seems to me not quite 
 square." 
 
 Cassar burst out laughing. "Jonathan, you are 
 a rum 'un. Anyway — here goes ! " 
 
 As he spoke he flung the pipe Into the bushes 
 below. 
 
 " Thanks," said John, quietly. 
 
 " We'll come here again. I like this old tower." 
 
 "You won't come here without me?" 
 
 " Oh, ho ! I'm not to let the Demon into our 
 paradise — eh? What a jealous old bird you are! 
 
236 THE HILL 
 
 Well, I like you to be jealous." And he laughed 
 again. 
 
 " I am jealous," said John, slowly. 
 
 The School broke up on the following Tuesday, 
 and Desmond went home with John. 
 
 This happened to be the first time that the friends 
 had spent Easter together. John wondered whether 
 Ca;sar would take the Sacrament with his mother and 
 him. He and Caesar had been confirmed side by 
 side in the Chapel at Harrow. He felt sure that 
 Desmond would not refuse if he were asked. 
 Finally, Mrs. Verney said, in her quiet, persuasive 
 voice — 
 
 " Will you join us, Harry? " 
 
 Desmond flushed, and said, " Yes." 
 
 Not remembering his own mother, who had died 
 when he was a child, he often told John that he 
 felt like a son to Mrs. Verney. Upon Easter morn- 
 ing, the three met in the hall, and Desmond asked 
 for a Prayer-book. 
 
 " I've lost mine," he murmured. 
 
 That afternoon, when they were alone upon the 
 splendid moor above Stoneycross, Desmond said sud- 
 denly — 
 
 " Religion means a lot to you, Jonathan, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But you never talk about it." 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 237 
 
 " I don't know how to begin." 
 
 " There's such sickening hypocrisy in this world." 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 " But your religion is a help to you, eh ? Keeps 
 you straight? " 
 
 John nodded again. Then Desmond said with 
 an air of finality — 
 
 " I wish I'd some of your faith. I want it badly." 
 
 " If you want it badly, you will get it." 
 
 A long silence succeeded. Then Desmond ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Hullo I By Jove, there's a fox, a splendid fel- 
 low! He's come up here amongst the rabbits for a 
 Sunday dinner. Gone awa-a-a-ay ! " 
 
 He put his hand to his mouth and halloaed. A 
 minute later he was talking of hunting. Religion 
 was not mentioned till they were approaching the 
 house for tea. On the threshold, Desmond said 
 with a nervous laugh — 
 
 " I'd like your mother to give me a Prayer-book 
 — a small one, nothing expensive." 
 
 During the following week they hunted with fox- 
 hounds or stag-hounds every day, except Wednes- 
 day. In the New Forest the Easter hunting is 
 unique. Tremendous fellows come down from the 
 shires — masters of famous packs, thrusters, keen to 
 see May foxes killed. And the Forest entertains 
 them handsomely, you may be sure. Big hampers 
 are unpacked under the oaks which may have been 
 saplings when William Rufus ruled in England; 
 there are dinners, and, of course, a hunt-ball in the 
 
238 THE HILL' 
 
 ancient village of Lyndhurst. But as each pleasant 
 day passed, John told himself that the end was 
 drawing near. This was almost the last holidays 
 Cssar and he would spend together ; and, afterwards, 
 would this friendship, so romantic a passion with 
 one at least of them — would it wither away, or would 
 it endure? 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, Desmond returned to 
 Eaton Square. Upon the eve of departure, Mrs. 
 Verney gave him a small Prayer-book. 
 
 " I have written something in it," she said; "but 
 don't open it now." 
 
 He looked at the fly-leaf as the train rolled out of 
 Lyndhurst Station. Upon it, in Mrs. Verney's deli- 
 cate handwriting, were a few lines. First his name 
 and the date. Below a text — " Unto whomsoevef 
 much is given, of him shall be much required." 
 And, below that again, a verse — 
 
 " Not thankful when it pleaseth me, 
 As if Thy blessings had spare days: 
 But such a heart whose pulse may be— 
 Thy praise." 
 
 Desmond stared at the graceful writing long after 
 the train had passed Totton. " Am I ungrateful? " 
 he asked himself. "Not to them," he muttered; 
 *' surely not to them." He recalled what Warde 
 had said about ingratitude being the unpardonable 
 sin. Ah! it was loathsome, ingratitude! And 
 much had been given to him. How much? For 
 the first time he made, so to speak, an inventory of 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 239 
 
 what he had received — his innumerable blessings. 
 What had he given in return? And now the fine 
 handwriting seemed blurred ; he saw it through tears 
 which he ought to have shed. " Oh, my God," he 
 murmured "am I ungrateful?" The question bit 
 deeper into his mind, sinking from there into his 
 soul. 
 
 When the School reassembled, a curious incident 
 occurred. John happened to be going up the fine 
 flight of steps that leads to the Old Schools. He 
 was carrying some books and papers. Scaife, run- 
 ning down the steps, charged into him. By great 
 good fortune, no damage was done, except to a 
 nicely-bound Sophocles. John, however, felt assured 
 that Scaife had deliberately intended to knock him 
 down, seized, possibly, by an ecstasy of blind rage 
 not uncommon with him. Scaife smiled derisively, 
 and said — 
 
 " A thousand apologies, Verney." 
 
 " One is enough," John replied, " if it is sincere." 
 
 They eyed each other steadily. John read a furi- 
 ous challenge in Scaife's bold eyes — more, a menace, 
 the threatening frown of power thwarted. Scaife 
 seemed to expand, to fill the horizon, to blot out the 
 glad sunshine. Once again the curious certainty 
 gripped the younger that Scaife was indeed the per- 
 sonification of evil, the more malefic because it stalked 
 abroad masked. For Scaife had survived his rep- 
 utation as a breaker of the law. Since that terrible 
 experience in the Fourth Form Room, he had paid 
 
240 THE HILL 
 
 tithe of mint and cummin. As a Sixth Form boy he 
 upheld authority, laughing the while in his sleeve. 
 He knew, of course, that one mistake, one slip, 
 would be fatal. And he prided himself on not mak- 
 ing mistakes. He gambled, but not with boys; he 
 drank, not with boys; he denied his body nothing it 
 craved; but he never forgot that expulsion from 
 Harrow meant the loss of a commission in a smart 
 cavalry regiment. When it was intimated to him 
 that the Guards did not want his father's son, he 
 laughed bitterly, and swore to himself that he would 
 show the stuck-up snobs what a soldier they had 
 turned away, A soldier he fully intended to be — a 
 dashing cavalry leader, if the Fates were kind. His 
 luck would stand by him; if not — ^why — what was 
 life without luck? He had never been a reader, 
 but he read now the lives of soldiers. Murat, Ux- 
 bridge, Cardigan, Hodson, were his heroes. Talk- 
 ing of their achievements, he inflamed his own mind 
 and Desmond's. 
 
 The pleasant summer days passed. May melted 
 into June. And each Sunday John and Desmond 
 walked to the Haunted House, ascended the tower, 
 and talked. Scaife was leaving at the end of the 
 summer. Desmond was staying on for the winter 
 term ; then John would have him entirely to himself. 
 This thought illumined dark hours, when he saw his 
 friend whirled away by Scaife, transported, as it 
 were, by the irresistible power of the man of action. 
 That nothing should be wanting to that trebly-fortu- 
 nate youth, he had helped to win the Public Schools' 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 241 
 
 Racquets Championship. The Manor was now the 
 crack house — cock-house at racquets and football, 
 certain to be cock-house at cricket. And Scaife got 
 most of the credit, not Warde, who smiled more 
 than ever, and talked continually of Balliol Scholar- 
 ships. He never bragged of victories past. 
 
 Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the 
 competition for the Prize Essay. The Head Mas- 
 ter had propounded as theme : " The History and 
 Influence of Parliamentary Oratory." Bit by bit, 
 John read or declaimed it to Desmond. Then, ac- 
 cording to custom, Desmond copied it out for his 
 friend. Signed " Spero Infestis," with a sealed en- 
 velope containing John's name inside and the motto 
 outside, the MS. was placed in the Head Master's 
 letter-box. John, cooling rapidly after the fever of 
 composition, condemned his stuff as hopelessly bad; 
 Caesar went about telling everybody that Jonathan 
 would win easily, " with a bit to spare." John did 
 win, but that proved to be the least part of his 
 triumph. The Essay had to be declaimed upon 
 Speech Day. Once more John experienced the 
 pangs that had twisted him at the concert, long ago, 
 when he had sung to the Nation's hero. And as 
 before, he began weakly. Then, the fire seizing 
 him, self-consciousness was exorcised by feeling, and 
 forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, he 
 burst into genuine oratory. Thrilled himself, he 
 thrilled others. His voice faltered again, but with 
 an emotion that found an echo in the hearts of his 
 audience; his hand shook, feeling the pulse of old 
 
242 THE HILL' 
 
 and young in front of him. Dominated, swept 
 away by his theme, he dominated others. When he 
 finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of ap- 
 plause, he knew that he had triumphed, for he saw 
 Desmond's glowing countenance, radiant with pleas- 
 ure, transfigured by amazement and admiration. 
 Next day a great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy 
 as one destined to delight and to lead, perhaps, an 
 all-conquering party in the House of Commons. 
 And yet, warmed to the core by this praise, John 
 counted it as nothing compared with his mother's 
 smile and Desmond's fervent grip. 
 
 Fortune, however, comes to no man — or boy — 
 with both hands full. Immediately after Speech 
 Day, John's bubble of pride and happiness was 
 pricked by Scaife. Midsummer madness seized the 
 Demon. One may conceive that the innate reckless- 
 ness of his nature, suppressed by an iron will, and 
 smouldering throughout many months, burst at last 
 into flame. Desmond told John that the Demon had 
 spent a riotous night in town. He had slipped out 
 of the Manor after prayers, had driven up to a cer- 
 tain club in Regent Street, returned in time for first 
 school, fresh as paint — so Desmond said — and then, 
 not content with such an achievement, must needs 
 brag of it to Desmond. 
 
 " And if he's nailed, Eton wins," concluded Des- 
 mond. " I've told you, because together we must 
 put a stop to such larks." 
 
 John slightly raised his thick eyebrows. It was 
 curious that Caesar always chose to ignore the hatred 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 243 
 
 which he must have known to exist between his two 
 friends. Or did he fatuously believe that, because 
 John exercised an influence over himself, the same 
 influence would or could be exercised over Scaife? 
 
 "We?" said John. 
 
 " I've tried and failed. But together, I say " 
 
 " I shan't interfere, Caesar." 
 
 " Jonathan, you must." 
 
 " It would prove a fool's errand." 
 
 " We three have gone up the School together. 
 You have never been fair to Scaife. I tell you he's 
 sound at core. Why, after he was swished " 
 
 Desmond told John what had passed; John shook, 
 his head. He could understand better than any one 
 else why Scaife had broken down. 
 
 " He has splendid ambitions," pursued Desmond. 
 " He's going to be a great soldier, you see. He 
 thinks of nothing else. You never have liked him, 
 but because of that I thought you would do what 
 you could." 
 
 The disappointment and chagrin In his voice 
 shook John's resolution. 
 
 " To please you, I'll try." 
 
 And accordingly the absurd experiment was made. 
 Afterwards, John asked himself a thousand times 
 why he had not foreseen the inevitable result. But 
 the explanation is almost too simple to be recorded: 
 he wished to convince a friend that he would at« 
 tempt anything to prove his friendship. 
 
 That night they went together to Scalfe's room. 
 The second-best room in the Manor, situated upon 
 
244 THE HILL 
 
 the first floor, it overlooked the back of the garden, 
 where there was a tangled thicket of laurustinus and 
 rhododendron. Scaife had spent much money in 
 making his room as comfortable as possible. • It had 
 the appearance of a man's room, and presented all 
 the characteristics of the man who lived in it. 
 Everything connected with Scalfe's triumphal march 
 through the School was preserved. On the walls 
 were his caps, fezes, and cups. You could hardly 
 see the paper for the framed photographs of Scaife 
 and his fellow " bloods." Scaife as cricketer, Scaife 
 as football-player, Scaife as racquet-player and 
 athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly at you. He 
 had a fine desk covered with massive silver orna- 
 ments. Upon this, as upon everything else in the 
 room, was the hall-mark of the successful man of 
 business. The papers, the pens and pencils, the 
 filed bills and letters, the books of reference, spoke 
 eloquently of a mind that used order as a means to 
 a definite end. All his books were well bound. 
 His boots were on trees. His racquets were in their 
 press. Had you opened his chest of drawers, you 
 would have found his clothes in perfect condition. 
 Obviously, to an observant eye, the owner of this 
 room gave his mind to details, because he realized 
 that on details hang great and successful enterprises. 
 Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly 
 enough. Cricket, of course, explained this unex- 
 pected visit. As Desmond blurted out what was in 
 his mind, Scaife frowned; then he laughed un- 
 pleasantly. 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING 245 
 
 " And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond. 
 
 " So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. " Are 
 you in the habit of telling Jonathan," — the derisive 
 inflection as he pronounced the name warned John 
 at least that he had much better have stayed away — 
 " things which concern others and which don't con- 
 cern him? " 
 
 " If you're going to take it hke that— — ■" 
 
 " Keep cool, Caesar. I'll admit that you mean 
 well. I should like to hear what Verney has to 
 say." 
 
 At that John spoke — ^haltingly. Fluent speech 
 upon any subject very dear to him had always been 
 difficult. He could talk glibly enough about ordi- 
 nary topics ; his sense of humour, his retentive mem- 
 ory, made him welcome even in the critical society 
 of Eaton Square, but we know him as a creature of 
 unplumbed reserves. The matter in hand was so 
 vital that he could not touch it with firm hands or 
 voice. He spoke at his worst, and he knew it; con- 
 cluding an incoherent and slightly inarticulate recital 
 of the reasons which ought to keep Scaife in his house 
 at night with a lame " Two heads ought to prevail 
 against one." 
 
 Scaife showed his fine teeth. "You think that? 
 Your head and Cssar's against mine? " 
 
 The challenge revealed itself in the derisive, sneer- 
 ing tone. 
 
 John shrugged his shoulders and rose. "I have 
 blundered; I am sorry." 
 
 " Hold hard," said Scaife. He read censure upon 
 
246 (THE HILU 
 
 Desmond's ingenuous countenance. Then his tem- 
 per whipped him to a furious resentment against 
 John, as an enemy who had turned the tables with 
 good breeding; who had gained, indeed, a victory 
 against odds. Scaife drew in his breath; his brows 
 met in a frown. "You have not blundered; and 
 you are not sorry," he said deliberately. " I'm not 
 a fool, Verney; but perhaps I have underrated your 
 ability. You're as clever as they make 'em. You 
 knew well enough that you were the last person in 
 the world to lead me in a string; you knew that, I 
 say, and yet you come here to pose as the righteous 
 youth, (^oing his duty — eh? — against odds, and ac- 
 cepting credit for the same from Caesar. Why, it's 
 plain to me as the nose upon your face that in your 
 heart you would like me to be sacked." 
 
 Desmond interrupted. " You are mad, Demon. 
 Take that back; take it back! " 
 
 " Ask him," said Scaife. " He hates me, and 
 common decency ought to have kept him out of this 
 room. But he's not a liar. Ask him. Put it in 
 your own way. Soften it, make pap of it, if you 
 like, but get an answer." 
 
 "Jonathan, it is not true, is it? You don't like 
 Scaife; but you would be sorry, very sorry, to see 
 him — sacked." 
 
 " I'm glad you've not funked it," said Scaife. 
 " You've put it squarely. Let him answer it as 
 squarely." 
 
 John was white to the lips, white and trembling; 
 despicable in his own eyes, how much more despicable 
 
SELF-QUESTIONING ^47 
 
 therefore, in the eyes of his friend, whose passionate 
 faith in him was about to be scorched and shrivelled. 
 
 Scaife began to laugh. 
 
 " For God's sake, don't laugh 1 " said Desmond. 
 " Jonathan, I know you are too proud to defend 
 yourself against such an abominable charge." 
 
 " He's not a liar," said Scaife. 
 
 " It's true," said John, in a strangled voice. 
 
 " You have wished that he might be sacked? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 John met Desmond's indignant eyes with an ex- 
 pression which the other was too impetuous, too inex- 
 perienced, to interpret. Into that look of passionate 
 reproach he flung all that must be left unsaid, all that 
 Scaife could read as easily as if it were scored in 
 letters of flame. Because, in his modesty and humil- 
 ity, he had ever reckoned that Scaife would prevail 
 against himself — ^because, with unerring instinct, he 
 had apprehended, as few boys could apprehend, the 
 issues involved, he had desired, fervently desired, that 
 Scaife should be swept from Cassar's path. But this 
 he could not plead as an excuse to his friend; and 
 Scaife had known that, and had used his knowledge 
 with fiendish success. John lowered his eyes and 
 walked from the room. 
 
 When he met Desmond again, nothing was said 
 on either side. John told himself that he would 
 speak, if Desmond spoke first. But evidently Des- 
 mond had determined already the nature of their 
 future relations. They no longer shared No. 7, John 
 being in the Upper Sixth with a room to himself, 
 
248 THE HILL 
 
 but they still found together. To separate would 
 mean a public scandal from which each shrank in 
 horror. No; let them meet at meals as before till 
 the end of the term. Indeed, so little change was 
 made in their previous intercourse, that John began 
 to hope that Cassar would walk with him as usual 
 upon the following Sunday. And if he did — if he 
 did, John felt that he would speak. On the top of 
 the tower, looking towards the Spire, alone with his 
 friend, exalted above the thorns and brambles of the 
 wilderness, words would come to him. 
 
 But on the following Sunday Desmond walked 
 with Scaife. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 " lord's " 
 
 "There we sat in the circle vast, 
 
 Hard by the tents, from noon, 
 And looked as the day went slowly past 
 
 And the runs came all too soon; 
 And never, I think, in the years gone by, 
 
 Since cricketer first went in. 
 Did the dying so refuse to die. 
 
 Or the winning so hardly win." 
 
 •' My dear Jonathan, I'm delighted to see you. You 
 know my father, I think? " It was the Caterpillar 
 that spoke. 
 
 John shook hands with Colonel Egerton. 
 
 The three were standing in the Member's En- 
 closure at Lord's. The Caterpillar, gorgeous in 
 frock-coat, with three corn-flowers ^ In the lapel of it, 
 was about as great a buck as his sire, quite as con- 
 spicuous, and almost as cool. It happened to be a 
 blazing hot day, but heat seldom affected Colonel 
 Egerton. 
 
 " By Jove," he said to John, " I'm told it's a 
 certainty this year, and I've come early, too early 
 j^or me, to see a glorious victory. There's civil war 
 
 1 The blue of the Harrow colours, 
 249 
 
250 THE HILL 
 
 raging on the top of the Trent coach, I give you my 
 word." 
 
 " We've won the toss," said John. 
 
 " Ah, there's Charles Desmond, an early bird too." 
 
 He strolled away, leaving John and the Cater- 
 pillar together. The great ground in front of them 
 was being cleared. One could see, through the few 
 people scattered here and there, the wickets pitched 
 in the middle of that vast expanse of lawn, and the 
 umpires in their long white coats. Upon the top of 
 the steps, in the middle of the pavilion, the Eton 
 captain was collecting his Eleven. The Duffer, who 
 had got his Flannels at the last moment, came up and 
 joined John and the Caterpillar. 
 
 " The Manor's well to the front," said the Cater- 
 pillar. " By Jove ! I never thought to see Fluff 
 in the Eleven." 
 
 " Fluff came on tremendously this term," the Duf- 
 fer replied. 
 
 " Of course the Kinlochs are a cricketing family." 
 
 " Good joke the brothers playing against each 
 other," said John. 
 
 " Warde," the Duffer nodded in the direction of 
 Warde, who was talking with Charles Desmond and 
 Colonel Egerton, " has worked like a slave. He 
 made a cricketer out of Fluff and a scholar out of 
 Jonathan. Gad ! he's so mad keen to see us win, that 
 he's given me the jumps." 
 
 " You must keep cool," the Caterpillar murmured. 
 " I've just come from the Trent coach. Fluff has it 
 from the brother who is playing that the Eton bowl- 
 
"LORD'S" 251 
 
 ing is weak. But Strathpeffer, the eldest son, tells 
 me the batsmen are stronger than last year. He 
 seemed anxious to bet; so we have a fiver about it. 
 They're taking the field." 
 
 The Eton Eleven walked towards the wicket, 
 loudly cheered. Cssar came up in his pads, carry- 
 ing his bat and gloves. He shook hands with the 
 Caterpillar, and said, with a groan, that he had to 
 take the first ball. 
 
 " Keep cool," said the Caterpillar. " The bowl- 
 ing's weak; I have it from Cosmo Kinloch. They're 
 in a precious funk." 
 
 " So am I," said the Duffer. 
 
 " But you're a bowler," said Desmond. " If I 
 get out first ball, I shall cut my throat." 
 
 But Caesar looked alert, cool, and neither under nor 
 over-confident. 
 
 "You'll cut the ball, not your throat," said the 
 Duffer. Cutting was Caesar's strong point. 
 
 The Caterpillar nodded, and spoke oracularly — 
 
 " My governor says he never shoots at a snipe 
 without muttering to himself, ' Snipe on toast.' It 
 steadies his nerves. When you see the ball leave 
 the bowler's hand, you say to yourself, ' Eton on 
 toast.' " 
 
 " Your own, Caterpillar? " 
 
 " My own," said the Caterpillar, modestly. " I 
 don't often make a joke, but that's mine. Pass it 
 on." 
 
 The other Harrovian about to go in beckoned to 
 Desmond. 
 
252 THE HILL 
 
 " Cassar won't be bowled first ball," said the Cater- 
 pillar. " He's the sort that rises to an emergency. 
 Can't we find a seat? " 
 
 They sat down and watched the Eton captain plac- 
 ing his field. Desmond and his companion were 
 walking slowly towards the wickets amid Harrow 
 cheers. The cheering was lukewarm as yet. It 
 would have fire enough in it presently. The Cater- 
 pillar pointed out some of the swells. 
 
 " That's old Lyburn. Hasn't missed a match 
 since '64. Was brought here once with a broken 
 leg I Carried in a litter, by Jove ! That fellow with 
 the long white beard is Lord Fawley. He made 78 
 not out in the days of Charlemagne." 
 
 " It was in '53," said the Duffer, who never joked 
 on really serious subjects; " and he made 68, not 78. 
 He's pulling his beard. I believe he's as nervous as 
 I am." 
 
 Presently the innumerable voices about them were 
 hushed; all eyes turned in one direction. Desmond 
 was about to take the first ball. It was delivered 
 moderately fast, with a slight break. Desmond 
 played forward. 
 
 " Well played, sirl Well pla-a-ayedl " 
 
 The shout rumbled round the huge circle. The 
 beginning and the end of a great match are always 
 thrilling. The second and third balls were played 
 like the first. John could hear Mr. Desmond saying 
 to Warde, " He has Hugo's style and way of stand- 
 ing — eh ? " And Warde replied, " Yes ; but he's a 
 finer batsman. Ah-h-h 1 " 
 
" LORD'S " 253 
 
 The first real cheer burst like a bomb. Desmond 
 had cut the sixth ball to the boundary. 
 
 Over I The new bowler was a tall, thin boy with 
 flaxen hair. 
 
 " That's Cosmo Kinloch, Fluff's brother," said 
 John. " I wonder they can't do better than that. 
 Even I knocked him all over the shop at White 
 Ladies last summer." 
 
 " He's come on, they tell me," said the Caterpil- 
 lar. " Good Lord, he nearly had him first ball." 
 
 Fluff's brother bowled slows of a good length, 
 with an awkward break from the off to the leg. 
 
 " Teasers," said the Caterpillar, critically. 
 " Hullo I No, my young friend, that may do well 
 enough in Shropshire, not here." 
 
 A ball breaking sharply from the off had struck 
 the batsman's pad; he had stepped in front of his 
 wicket to cut it. Country umpires are often beguiled 
 by bowlers Into giving wrong decisions In such cases, 
 not so your London expert. Cosmo Kinloch ap- 
 pealed In vain. 
 
 "He'll send a short one down now," said John. 
 " You see." 
 
 And, sure enough, a long hop came to the off, 
 curling inwards after it pitched. The Eton captain 
 had nearly all his men on the off side. The Har- 
 rovian pulled the ball right round to the boundary. 
 
 "Well hit!" 
 
 "Well pulled!" 
 
 "Two 4's; that's a good beginning." said the 
 Duffer. 
 
254 THE HILL 
 
 A couple of singles followed, and then the first 
 " 10 " went up amid cheers. 
 
 " Here's my governor," said the Duffer. " He 
 was three years in the Eleven and Captain his last 
 term." 
 
 " You've told us that a thousand times," said the 
 Caterpillar. 
 
 The Rev. Septimus Duff greeted the boys warmly. 
 His eyes sparkled out of a cheery, bearded face. 
 Look at him well. An Harrovian of the Harro- 
 vians this. His grandfathers on the maternal and 
 paternal side had been friends at Harrow in Byron's 
 time. The Rev. Septimus wore rather a shabby coat 
 and a terrible hat, but the consummate Caterpillar, 
 who respected pedigrees, regarded him with pride 
 and veneration. He came up from his obscure West 
 Country vicarage to town just once a year — to see 
 the match. If you asked him, he would tell you 
 quite simply that he would sooner see the match and 
 his old friends than go to Palestine; and the Rev. 
 Septimus has yearned to visit Palestine ever since he 
 left Cambridge; and it is not likely that this great 
 wish will ever be gratified. He is the father of 
 three sons, but the Duffer is the first to get into the 
 Eleven. 
 
 Charles Desmond is supposed to be one of the most 
 harried men in the Empire. Times are troublous. 
 A war-cloud, as large as Kruger's hand, has just 
 risen in the South, and is spreading itself over the 
 whole world. But to-day the great Minister has 
 left the cares of office in Downing Street. He hails 
 
" LORD'S " 255 
 
 the Rev. Septimus with a genial laugh and a hearty 
 grasp of the hand. 
 
 " Ah, Sep, upon your word of honour, now — 
 would you sooner be here to see the Duffer take half 
 a dozen wickets, or be down in Somerset, bishop of 
 Bath and Wells?" 
 
 " When you offer me the bishopric," replied the 
 Rev. Septimus, with a twinkle, "I'll answer that 
 question, my dear Charles, and not before." 
 
 " You old humbug ! You're so puffed up with 
 sinful pride that you've stuck your topper on to your 
 head the wrong way about." 
 
 " Bless my soul," said the Duffer's father, " so I 
 have." 
 
 " That topper of the governor's," the Duffer re- 
 marked solemnly, " has seen twenty-five matches at 
 least." 
 
 John looked at no hats ; his eyes were on the pitch. 
 Another round of cheers proclaimed that " 20 " had 
 gone up. Both boys are batting steadily; no more 
 boundary hits ; a snick here, a snack there — and then 
 — ^merciful Heavens ! — Cassar has cut a curling ball 
 " bang " into short slip's hands. 
 
 Short slip — wretched youth — ^muffs it! Derisive 
 remarks from the Rev. Septimus. 
 
 " Well caught ! Well held 1 Tha-a-nks I " 
 
 The Caterpillar would pronounce this sort of chaff 
 bad form in a contemporary. He removes his hat. 
 
 " By Jove I " says he. " It's very warm." 
 
 Cssar times the next ball beautifully. It glides 
 past point and under the ropes. 
 
2^6 THE HILL 
 
 Early as it is, the ground seems to be packed with 
 people. Glorious weather has allured everybody. 
 Stand after stand is filled up. The colour becomes 
 kaleidoscopic. The Rev. Septimus, during the 
 brief interval of an over, allows his eyes to stray 
 round the huge circle. Upon the ground are the 
 youth, the beauty, the rank and fashion of the king- 
 dom, and, best of all, his old friends. The Rev. 
 Septimus has a weakness, being, of course, human to 
 the finger-tips. He calls himself a laudator tempor'ts 
 acti. In his day, the match was less of a function. 
 The boys sat round upon the grass ; behind them were 
 the carriages and coaches — ^you could drive on to the 
 ground then I — and here and there, only here and 
 there, a tent or a small stand. Consule Planco — 
 the parson loves a Latin tag — the match was a 
 jolly picnic for Harrovians and Etonians. And, 
 my word, you ought to have heard the chaff when an 
 unlucky fielder put the ball on the floor. Or, when 
 a batsman interposed a pad where a bat ought to 
 have been. Or, if a player was bowled first ball. 
 Or, if he swaggered as he walked, the cyno- 
 sure of all eyes, from the pavilion to the pitch. Upon 
 this subject the Rev. Septimus will preach a longer 
 (and a more interesting) sermon than any you 
 will hear from his pulpit in Blackford-Orcas 
 Church. 
 
 Loud cheers put an end to the parson's reminis- 
 cences. Desmond's companion has been clean bowled 
 for a useful fifteen runs. He walks towards the 
 pavilion slowly. Then, as he hears the Harrow 
 
" LORD'S " 257 
 
 cheers, he blushes like a nymph of sixteen, for he 
 counts himself a failure. Last year he made " duck " 
 in his first innings, and five in the second. No cheers 
 then. This is his first taste of the honey mortals 
 call success. He has faced the great world, and 
 captured its applause. 
 
 "When does Scaife go in?" the Rev. Septimus 
 asks. 
 
 " Second wicket down." 
 
 More cheers as the second man in strolls down the 
 steps. A careful cove, so the Duffer tells his father 
 — one who will try to break the back of the bowling. 
 
 "They're taking off Fluff's brother," the Cater- 
 pillar observes. 
 
 A thick-set young man holds the ball. He makes 
 some slight alteration in the field. The wicket- 
 keeper stands back; the slips and point retreat a few 
 yards. The ball that took the first wicket was the 
 last of an over. Desmond has to receive the attack 
 of the new bowler. 
 
 The thick-set Etonian, having arranged the offside 
 to his satisfaction, prepares to take a long run. He 
 holds the ball in the left hand, runs sideways at great 
 speed, changes the ball from the left hand to the 
 right at the last moment, and seems to hurl both it 
 and himself at the batsman. 
 
 " Greased lightning! " says John. 
 
 A dry summer has made the pitch rather fiery. 
 The ball, short-pitched, whizzes just over Caesar's 
 head. A second and a third seem to graze his cap. 
 Murmurs are heard. Is the Eton bowler trying to 
 
2^8 THE HILE 
 
 kill or maim his antagonist? Is he deliberately en- 
 deavouring to establish a paralyzing " funk"? 
 
 But the fourth ball Is a " fizzer " — the right 
 length, a bailer, terrifically fast, but just off the 
 wicket. Desmond snicks it between the short slip 
 and third man; it goes to the boundary. 
 
 " That's what Cssar likes," says the Duffer. " He 
 can cut behind the wicket till the cows come home." 
 
 " Cut — and come again," says the Caterpillar. 
 
 The fifth ball is played forward for a risky single. 
 The Rev. Septimus forgets that times have changed. 
 And if they have, what of it? He hasn't. His 
 deep vibrant voice rolls across the lawn right up to the 
 batsman — 
 
 " Steady there ! Steady!" 
 
 And now the new-comer has to take the last ball 
 of the over — his first. Alas and alack! The sixth 
 ball is dead on to the middle stump. The Harrovian 
 plays forward. Man alive, you ought to have 
 played back at that! The ball grazes the top edge 
 of the bat's blade and flies straight Into the welcom- 
 ing hands of the wicket-keep. 
 
 Two wickets for 33. 
 
 Breathless suspense, broken by tumultuous cheers 
 as Scaife strides on to the ground. His bat is under 
 his arm ; he Is drawing on his gloves. Thousands of 
 men and as many women are staring at his splendid 
 face and figure. 
 
 " What a mover ! " murmurs the Rev. Septimus. 
 
 Scaife strides on. Upon his face is the expression 
 John knows so well and fears so much — the con- 
 
" LORD'S " 2^9 
 
 sclousness of power, the stern determination to be 
 first, to shatter previous records. John can predict 
 — and does so with absolute certainty — what will 
 happen. For six overs the Demon will treat every 
 ball — good, bad, and indifferent — ^with the most dis- 
 tinguished consideration. And then, when his " eye " 
 is in, he will give the Etonians such leather-hunting 
 as they never had before. 
 
 After a long stand made by Scaife and Desmond, 
 Caesar is caught at cover-point, but Scaife remains. 
 It is a Colossus batting, not a Harrow boy. The 
 balls come down the pitch; the Demon's shoulders 
 and chest widen; the great knotted arms go up — 
 crash! First singles; then twos; then threes; and 
 then boundary after boundary. To John — and to 
 how many others? — Scaife has been transformed 
 into a tremendous human machine, inexorably cut- 
 ting and slicing, pulling and drawing — the embodied 
 symbol of force, ruthlessly applied, indefatigable, 
 omnipotent. 
 
 The Eton captain, hopeful against odds, puts on 
 a cunning and cool dealer in " lobs." Fluff is In, 
 playing steadily, holding up his wicket, letting the 
 giant make the runs. The Etonian delivers his first 
 ball. Scaife leaves the crease. Fluff sees the ball 
 slowly spinning — harmless enough till it pitches, and 
 then deadly as a writhing serpent. Scaife will not 
 let it pitch. The ball curves slightly from the leg to 
 the off. Scaife is facing the pavilion — 
 
 A stupendous roar bursts from the crowd. The 
 ball, hit with terrific force, sails away over the green 
 
26o THE HILL 
 
 sward, over the ropes, over the heads of the specta- 
 tors, and slap on to the top of the pavilion. 
 
 Only four ! But one of the finest swipes ever seen 
 at Lord's. Shade of Mynn, come forth from the 
 tomb to applaud that mighty stroke I 
 
 But the dealer in lobs knows that the man who 
 leaves his citadel, leaves it, sooner or later, not to 
 return. In the hope that Scaife, intoxicated with 
 triumph, will run out again, he pitches the next lob 
 too much up — a half-volley. Scaife smiles. 
 
 John's prediction has been fulfilled. A, record has 
 been established. Never before in an Eton and Har- 
 row match have two balls been hit over the ropes 
 in succession. The crowds have lost their self-posses- 
 sion. Men, women, and children are becoming de- 
 lirious. The Rev. Septimus throws his ancient topper 
 into the air; the Caterpillar splits a brand-new pair 
 of delicate grey gloves. Upon the tops of the 
 coaches, mothers, sisters, aunts and cousins — are 
 cheering like Fourth-Form boys. 
 
 The Harrow first innings closed with 289 runs, 
 Scaife carrying out his bat for an almost flawless 
 126. Desmond made 72; Fluff was in for twenty- 
 seven minutes — a great performance for him — and 
 was caught in the slips after compiling a useful 17. 
 
 But the remarkable feature of the innings was the 
 short time in which so many runs were made — exactly 
 three hours. The elevens went in to lunch, as the 
 crowd poured over the ground, laughing and chat- 
 tering. This a delightful hour to the Rev. Septi- 
 
" LORD'S " 261 
 
 mus. He will walk to the wickets, and wait there 
 for his innumerable friends. It will be, " Hullo, 
 Sep ! " " By Jove, here's dear old Sep ! " " Sep, 
 you unfriendly beast, why do you never come to see 
 us? " " Sep, when are you going to send that awful 
 tile of yours to the British Museum? " And so on. 
 
 Twenty men, at least — some of them with names 
 known wherever the Union Jack waves — will ask the 
 Rev. Sep to lunch with them; but the Rev. Sep will 
 say, as he has said these thirty years, that he doesn't 
 come to Lord's to " gorge." A sandwich presently, 
 and a glass of "fizz," if you please; but time is 
 precious. A tall bishop strolls up — one of the pil- 
 lars of the Church; an eloquent preacher, and an 
 autocrat in his diocese. Most people regard him 
 with awe. The Rev. Sep greets him with a scandal- 
 ous slap on the back, and addresses him, the apostolic 
 one, as Tamper.^ And the Right Reverend the Bis- 
 hop of Dudley says, like the others — 
 
 " Hullo, Sep ! We used to think you a slogger, 
 but you never came anywhere near that smite of 
 Scaife's." 
 
 " I thought his smite was coming too near me," 
 says the Rev. Sep, with a shrewd glance at the pavil- 
 ion. " Lamper, old chap, I am glad to see your 
 * phiz ' again." 
 
 And so they stroll off together, mighty prelate and 
 humble country parson, once again happy Harrow 
 boys. 
 
 And now, before Eton goes in, we must climb on 
 
 1 Lamper, i.e. Lamp-post. 
 
262 THE HILL 
 
 to the Trent coach. Fluff and his brother Cosmo, 
 the Eton bowler, are lunching in other company, but 
 we shall find Colonel Egerton and the Caterpillar 
 and Warde; so the Hill slightly outnumbers the Plain, 
 as the Duke puts it. Next to the Duchess sits Mrs. 
 Verney. The Duke is torn nearly in two between 
 his desire that Fluff should make runs and that 
 Cosmo, the Etonian, should take wickets. His Eton 
 sons regard him as a traitor, a " rat," and Colonel 
 Egerton gravely offers him the corn-flowers out of 
 his coat. 
 
 " You can laugh," the Duke says seriously, " but 
 when I see what Harrow has done for Esme, I'ni 
 almost sorry " — he looks at his youngest son (nearly, 
 but not quite, as delicate-looking as Fluff used to be) 
 — " I'm almost sorry that I didn't send Alastair there 
 also." 
 
 Alastair smiles contemptuously. " If you had," 
 he says, " I should have never spoken to you again. 
 Esme is a forgiving chap, but you've wrecked his 
 life. At least, that's my opinion." 
 
 After luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. 
 The ladies want to see the pitch, and, shall we add, to 
 display their wonderful frocks. The enclosure at 
 Ascot on Cup Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as 
 this. The Caterpillar, sly dog, has secured Iris 
 Warde, and looks uncommonly pleased with himself 
 and his companion ; a smart pair, but smart pairs are 
 common as gooseberries. It is the year of picture 
 hats and Gainsborough dresses. 
 
 " England at its best," says Miss Iris. 
 
" LORD'S " 263 
 
 " And in its best," the Caterpillar replies 
 solemnly. 
 
 Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter 
 ought to be. She tells the Caterpillar that when she 
 was a small girl with only threepence a week pocket- 
 money, she used to save a penny a week for twelve 
 weeks preceding the match, so as to be able to 
 put a shilling into the plate on Sunday if Harrow 
 won! 
 
 " And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and 
 wear light blue after all-" growls the Caterpillar. 
 
 " Never! " says Miss Ins. 
 
 Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you 
 see a white figure or two. The Elevens have finished 
 lunch, and are mixing with the crowd. Scaife is talk- 
 ing with a famous Old Carthusian, one of the finest 
 living exponents of cricket, sometime an " Interna- 
 tional " at football, and a D.S.O. The great man 
 is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an All-England 
 player. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is 
 impatient to begin again. As soon as possible he col- 
 lects his men, and leads them into the field. One can 
 hear the policemen saying in loud, firm voices, " Pass 
 along, please ; pass along ! " As if by magic the 
 crowds on the lawn melt away. In a few minutes 
 the Etonians come out of the pavilion. The sun 
 shines upon their pale-blue caps and sashes, and upon 
 faces slightly pale also, but not yet blue. For Eton 
 has a strong batting team, and Scaife and Desmond 
 have proved that it is a batsman's wicket. 
 
 And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, 
 
264 THE HILL" 
 
 settle themselves down comfortably to watch Scaife 
 field. That, to them, is the great attraction, apart 
 from the contest between the rival schools. Some of 
 these Olympians have been heard to say that Scaife's 
 innings against weak bowling was no very meritori- 
 ous performance, although the two swipes, they ad- 
 mit, were parlous knocks. Still, Public School cricket 
 is kindergarten cricket, and if you've not been at 
 Eton or Harrow, and if you loathe a fashionable 
 crowd, and if you think first-class fielding is worth 
 coming to Lord's to see, why, then, my dear fellow, 
 look at Scaife ! 
 
 Scaife stands at cover-point. If you put up your 
 binoculars, you will see that he is almost on his toes. 
 His heels are not touching the ground. And he bends 
 slightly, not quite as low as a sprinter, but so low 
 that he can start with amazing speed. For two overs 
 not a ball worth fielding rolls his way. Ah ! that will 
 be punished. A long hop comes down the pitch. 
 The Etonian squares his shoulders. His eye, to be 
 sure, is on the ball, but in his mind's eye is the 
 boundary; in his ear the first burst of applause. 
 Bat meets ball with a smack which echoes from the 
 Tennis-Court to the stands across the ground. Now 
 watch Scaife! He dashes at top speed for the only 
 point where his hands may intercept that hard- 
 hit ball. And, by Heaven 1 he stops it, and Hicks 
 it up to the wicket-keeper, who chips ofl the 
 bails. 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "Not out!" 
 
" LORD'S " 265 
 
 "Well fielded; well fielded, sirl " 
 
 " A very close squeak," says the Caterpillar. 
 " They won't steal many runs from the Demon." 
 
 " Sometimes," says Miss Iris, " I really think that 
 he is a demon." 
 
 The Caterpillar nods. " You're more than half 
 right, Miss Warde." 
 
 Presently, the first wicket falls; then the second 
 soon after. And the score is under twenty. The 
 Rev. Septimus is beaming; the Bishop seated beside 
 him looks as if he were about to pronounce a bene- 
 diction; Charles Desmond is scintillating with wit 
 and good humour. Visions of a single innings vic- 
 tory engross the minds of these three. They are in 
 the front row of the pavilion, and they mean to see 
 every ball of the game. 
 
 But soon it becomes evident that a determined stand 
 is being made. Runs come slowly, but they come; 
 the score creeps up — thirty, forty, fifty. Fluff goes 
 on to bowl. On his day Fluff is tricky, but this, 
 apparently, is not his day. The runs come more 
 quickly. The Rev. Septimus removes his hat, wipes 
 his forehead, and replaces his hat. It is on the back 
 of his head, but he is unaware of that. The Bishop 
 appears now as if he were reading a new commina- 
 tion — to wit, " Cursed is he that smiteth his neigh- 
 bour; cursed is he that bowleth half volleys ! " The 
 Minister is frowning ; things may look black in South 
 Africa, but they're looking blacker in St. John's 
 Wood. 
 
 One hundred runs for two wickets. 
 
266 THE HILL^ 
 
 The Eton cheers are becoming exasperating. A 
 few seats away Warde is twiddling his thumbs and 
 biting his lips. Old Lord Fawley has slipped into 
 the pavilion for a brandy and soda. 
 
 At last! 
 
 Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, 
 changing his own place in the field to short slip. The 
 ball, a first ball and very fast, puzzles the batsman, 
 accustomed to slows. He mistimes it; it grazes the 
 edge of his bat, and whizzes off far to the right of 
 Scaife, but the Demon has it. Somehow or other, 
 ask of the spirits of the air — not of the writer — 
 somehow his wonderful right hand has met and held 
 the ball. 
 
 " Well caught, sir; well caught! " 
 
 " That boy ought to be knighted on the spot," 
 says Charles Desmond. Then the three generously 
 applaud the retiring batsman. He has played a 
 brilliant innings, and restored the confidence of all 
 Etonians. 
 
 The Eton captain descends the steps; a veteran 
 this, not a dashing player, but sure, patient, and full 
 of grit. He asks the umpire to give him middle and 
 leg; then he notes the positions of the field. 
 
 "Whew-w-w-wl" 
 
 "D n it!" ejaculates Charles Desmond. 
 
 Bishop and parson regard him with gratitude. There 
 are times when an honest oath becomes expedient. 
 The Eton captain has cut the first ball into Fluff's 
 hands, and Fluff has dropped it! Alastair Kinloch, 
 from the top of the Trent coach, screams out, " Jolly 
 
" LORD'S " 267 
 
 well muffed ! " The great Minister silently thanks 
 Heaven that point is the Duke's son and not his. 
 
 And, of course, the Eton captain never gives an- 
 other chance till he is dismissed with half a century 
 to his credit. Meantime five more wickets have 
 fallen. Seven down for 191. Eton leaves the field 
 with a score of 226 against Harrow's 289. Harrow 
 goes in without delay, and one wicket is taken for 
 13 runs before the stumps are drawn. Charles Des- 
 mond looks at the sky. 
 
 " Looks like rain to-night," he says anxiously. 
 
 And so ends Friday's play. 
 
 The morrow dawned grey, obscured by mist rising 
 from ground soaked by two hours' heavy rain. You 
 may be sure that all our friends were early at Lord's, 
 and that the pitch was examined by thousands of 
 anxious eyes. The Eton fast bowler was seen to 
 smile. Upon a similar wicket had he not done the 
 famous hat-trick only three weeks before ? The rain, 
 however, was over, and soon the sun would drive 
 away the filmy mists. No man alive could foretell 
 what condition the pitch would be in after a few 
 hours of blazing sunshine. The Rev. Septimus told 
 Charles Desmond that he considered the situation to 
 be critical, and, although he had read the morning 
 paper, he was not alluding even indirectly to South 
 African affairs. Charles Desmond said that, other 
 things being equal, the Hill would triumph; but he 
 admitted that other things were very far from 
 equal. It looked as if Harrow would have to bat 
 
268 THE HILU 
 
 upon a treacherous wicket, and Eton on a sound 
 one. 
 
 At half-past ten punctually the men were In the 
 field. Scalfe issued last instructions. " Block the 
 bowling; don't try to score till you see what tricks 
 the ground will play. A minute saved now may mean 
 a quarter of an hour to us later." Caesar nodded 
 cheerfully. The fact that the luck had changed 
 stimulated every fibre of his being. And he said 
 that he felt in his bones that this was going to be a 
 famous match, like that of '85 — something never to 
 be forgotten. 
 
 Charles Desmond spoke a few words while his 
 son was batting. It was a tradition among the Des- 
 monds that they rose superior to emergency. The 
 Minister wondered whether his Harry would rise or 
 fall. The fast bowler delivered the first ball. It 
 bumped horribly. The Rev. Septimus shuddered 
 and closed his eyes. Cassar got well over it. The 
 third ball was cut for three. The fourth whizzed 
 down — a wide. The fast bowler dipped the ball 
 into the sawdust. 
 
 " It isn't all jam for him," whispered the Rev. 
 Septimus. 
 
 " Well bowled— well bowled! " 
 
 Alas ! the middle stump was knocked clean out of 
 the ground. Caesar's partner, a steady, careful 
 player, had been bowled by his first ball. 
 
 Two wickets for 17. 
 
 The crowd was expecting the hero, but Fluff was 
 walking towards the wickets, wondering whether he 
 
" LORD'S " 269 
 
 should reach them alive. Never had his heart beat 
 as at this moment. Scaife had come up to him. as 
 soon as he had examined the pitch. 
 
 " Fluff, I am putting you in early because you are 
 a fellow I can trust. My first and last word is, hit 
 at nothing that isn't wide of the wicket. The ground 
 will probably improve fast." 
 
 Fluff nodded. A hive of bees seemed to have 
 lodged in his head, and an active automatic hammer 
 in his heart; but he didn't dare tell the Dernon that 
 funk, abject funk, possessed him, body and soul. 
 
 The second bowler began his first over. He 
 bowled slows. Desmond played the six balls back 
 along the ground. A maiden over. 
 
 And then that thick-set, muscular beast, for so 
 Fluff regarded him, stared fixedly at Fluff's middle 
 stump. Fluff glanced round. The wicket-keeper 
 had a grim smile on his lips, for his billet was no 
 easy one. Cosmo Kinloch at short slip looked as if 
 it were a foregone conclusion that Fluff would put 
 the ball into his hands. Then Fluff faced the bowler. 
 Now for it I 
 
 The first ball was half a foot off the wicket, but 
 Fluff let it go by. The second came true enough. 
 Fluff blocked it. The third flew past Fluff's leg, 
 but he just snicked it. Desmond started to run, and 
 then stopped, holding up his hand. Cheers rippled 
 round the ring for the first hit to the boundary. 
 That was a bit of sheer luck. Fluff reflected. 
 
 After this both boys played steadily for some ten 
 minutes. Then, very slowly, Cssar began to score. 
 
270 THE HILL 
 
 He had made about fifteen when he drove a ball hard 
 to the on, Fluff backing up. Desmond, watching 
 the travelling ball, called to him to run. It seemed 
 to Desmond almost certain that the ball would go to 
 the boundary. Too late he realized that it had been 
 magnificently fielded. Desmond strained every nerve, 
 but his bat had not reached the crease when the bails 
 flew to right and left. 
 
 Out! And run out I 
 
 Three wickets for 4 1 1 
 
 A quarter of an hour later Fluff was bowled with 
 a yorker. He had made eleven runs, and kept up his 
 wicket during a crisis. Harrow cheered him loudly. 
 
 And then came the terrible moment of the morn- 
 ing. Scaife went in when Fluff's wicket fell. The 
 ground had improved, but it was still treacherous. 
 The fast bowler sent down a straight one. It shot 
 under Scaife's bat and spread-eagled his stumps. 
 
 The wicket-keeper knows what the Harrow cap- 
 tain said, but it does not bear repeating. Every eye 
 was on his scowling, furious face as he returned to 
 the pavilion; and the Rev. Septimus scowled also, 
 because he had always maintained that any Harro- 
 vian could accept defeat like a gentleman. Upon 
 the other side of the ground the Caterpillar was 
 saying to his father, " I always said he was hairy at 
 the heel." 
 
 It was admitted afterwards that the Duffer's per- 
 formance was the one really bright spot in Harrow's 
 second innings. Being a bowler, he went in last but 
 
" LORD'S " 271 
 
 one. It happened that Fluff's brother was in posses- 
 sion of the ball. It will never be known why the 
 Duffer chose to treat Cosmo Kinloch's balls with 
 utter scorn and contempt. The Duffer was tall, 
 strong, and a terrific slogger. Nobody expected him 
 to make a run, but he made twenty in one over — all 
 boundary hits. When he left the wickets he had 
 added thirty-eight to the score, and wouldn't have 
 changed places with an emperor. The Rev. Septi- 
 mus followed him into the room where the players 
 change. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, " I've never been able 
 to give you a gold watch, but you must take mine; 
 here It Is, and — and God bless you ! " 
 
 But the Duffer swore stoutly that he preferred his 
 own Waterbury. 
 
 Eton went in to make 211 runs In four hours, 
 upon a wicket almost as sound as it had been upon 
 the Friday. Scalfe put the Duffer on to bowl. The 
 Demon had belief in luck. 
 
 "It's your day, Duffer*" he said. "Pitch 'em 
 up." 
 
 The Duffer, to his sire's exuberant satisfaction, 
 " pitched 'em up " so successfully that he took four 
 wickets for 33. Four out of five! The other 
 bowlers, however, being not so successful, Eton ac- 
 cumulated a hundred runs. The captains had agreed 
 to draw stumps at 7.30. To win, therefore, the 
 Plain must make another hundred in two hours ; and 
 three of their crack batsmen were out. 
 
272 THE HILL 
 
 After tea an amazing change took place in the 
 temper of the spectators. Conviction seized them 
 that the finish was likely to be close and thrilling; 
 that the one thing worth undivided attention was tak- 
 ing place in the middle of the ground. As the min- 
 utes passed, a curious silence fell upon the crowd, 
 broken only by the cheers of the rival schools. The 
 ' boys, old and young alike, were watching every ball, 
 every stroke. The Eton captain was still in, playing 
 steadily, not brilliantly; the Harrow bowling was 
 getting slack. TXj-i^ 
 
 In the pavilion, the Rev. Septimus Warde, and 
 Charles Desmond were sitting together. Not far 
 from them was Scaife's father, a big, burly man with 
 a square head and heavy, strongly-marked features. 
 He had never been a cricketer, but this game gripped 
 him. He sat next to a world-famous financier of 
 the great house of Neuchatel, whose sons had been 
 sent to the Hill. Run after run, run after run was 
 added to the score. Scaife's father turned to Neu- 
 chatel. 
 
 " I'd write a cheque for ten thousand pounds," he 
 said, " if we could win." 
 
 Lionel Neuchatel nodded. "Yes," he muttered; 
 " I have not felt so excited since Sir Bevis won the 
 Derby." 
 
 In the deep field Desmond was standing, miser- 
 able because he had nothing to do. No balls came 
 his way; for the Eton captain had made up his mind 
 to win this match with singles and twos. Very care- 
 fully he placed his balls between the fielders; very 
 
."LORD'S" 273 
 
 carefully his partner followed his chief's example.' 
 No stealing of runs, no scoring off straight balls, no 
 gallery play — till victory was assured. 
 
 Poor Lord Fawley retired at this point into an 
 inner room, pulling savagely at his white beard. Old 
 Lyburn, who had been sitting beside him, gurgling 
 and gasping, staggered after him. The Rev. Sep- 
 timus kept wiping his forehead. 
 
 " I can't stand this much longer," said Warde, in 
 a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Well hit, sir! Well hit!" 
 
 The Eton cheering became frantic. After nearly 
 an hour's pawky, uninteresting play, the Eton cap- 
 tain suddenly changed his tactics. His " eye " was 
 in ; now or never let him score. A half-volley came 
 down from the pavilion end — a half-volley and off 
 the wicket. The Etonian put all the strength and 
 power he had suppressed so manfully into a tremen- 
 dous swipe, and hit the ball clean over the ropes ! 
 
 " Do you want to double that bet? " said Strath- 
 peffer to the Caterpillar. They were standing on the 
 top of the Trent coach. 
 
 " No, thanks." 
 
 " Give you two to one, Egerton? " 
 
 '' Done — in fivers." 
 
 The unhappy bowler sent down another half-vol- 
 ley. Once more the Etonian smote, and smote hard; 
 but this ball was not quite the same as the first, al- 
 though it appeared identical. The ball soared up 
 and up. Would it fall over the ropes? Thousands 
 of eyes watched its flight. Desmond started to run. 
 
274 THE HILE 
 
 Golconda to a sixpence on the ball I It is falling, 
 falling, falling. 
 
 " He'll never get there in time," says Charles 
 Desmond. 
 
 " Yes he will," Warde answers savagely. 
 
 "He has I" screamed the Rev. Septimus. "He 
 —has! " 
 
 Pandemonium broke loose. Grey-headed men 
 threw their hats into the air; bishops danced; lovely 
 women shrieked; every Harrovian on the ground 
 howled. For Caesar held the ball fast in his lean 
 brown hands! 
 
 The Eton captain walks slowly towards the pavil- 
 ion. He has to pass Caesar on his way, and passing 
 him he pauses. 
 
 " That was a glorious catch," he says, with the 
 smile of a gallant gentleman. 
 
 And as Harrow, as cordially as Eton, cheers the 
 retiring chieftain, the Caterpillar whispers to Mrs. 
 Verney — 
 
 " Did you see that? Did you see him stop to con- 
 gratulate Caesar? " 
 
 " Yes," says Mrs. Verney. 
 
 " I hope Scaife saw it too," the Caterpillar re- 
 plies coolly. " That Eton captain is cut out of whole 
 cloth; no shoddy there, by Jove! " 
 
 And Desmond. How does Desmond feel? It 
 is futile to ask him, because he could not tell you, 
 if he tried. But we can answer the question. If the 
 country he wishes to serve crowns him with all the 
 honours bestowed upon a favoured son, never, never 
 
" LORD'S " 275 
 
 will Csesar Desmond know again a moment of such 
 exquisite, unadulterated joy as this. 
 
 Six wickets down and 39 runs to get in less than 
 half an hour I 
 
 Every ball now, every stroke, is a matter for 
 cheers, derisive or otherwise. The Rev. Septimus 
 need not prate of golden days gone by. Boys at 
 heart never change. And the atmosphere is so 
 charged with electricity that a spark sets the firma- 
 ment ablaze. 
 
 Seven wickets for 192. 
 
 Eight wickets for 197. 
 
 Signs of demoralization show themselves on both 
 sides. The bowling has become deplorably feeble, 
 the batting even more so. Four more singles are re- 
 corded. Only ten runs remain to be made, with two 
 wickets to fall. 
 
 And twelve minutes to play I 
 
 Scaife puts on the Duffer again. The lips of the 
 Rev. Sep are seen to move inaudibly. Is he praying, 
 or cursing, because three singles are scored off his 
 son's first three balls? 
 
 " Well bowled— well bowled! " 
 
 A ball of fair length, easy enough to play under 
 all ordinary circumstances, but a " teaser " when tre- 
 mendous issues are at stake, has defeated one of the 
 Etonians. The last man runs towards the pitch 
 through a perfect hurricane of howls. Warde rises. 
 
 " I can't stand it," he says, and his voice shakes 
 oddly. " You fellows will find me behind the Pavvy 
 after the match." 
 
276 THE HILL 
 
 " I'd go with you," says the Rev. Septimus, In a 
 choked tone, " but if I tried to walk I should tumble 
 down." 
 
 Charles Desmond says nothing. But, pray note 
 the expression so faithfully recorded in Punch — tlit? 
 compressed lips, the stern frowning brows, the pro- 
 truded jaw. The famous debater sees all fights to a 
 finish, and fights himself till he drops. 
 
 Seven runs to make, one wicket to fall, and five 
 minutes to play! ! ! 
 
 Evidently the last man in has received strenuous 
 instructions from his chief. The bowling has de- 
 generated into that of anaemic girls — and two 
 whacks to the boundary mean — Victory. The new- 
 comer is the square, thick-set fast bowler, the worst 
 bat in the Eleven, but a fellow of determination, a 
 slogger and a run-getter against village teams. 
 
 He obeys instructions to the letter. The Duffer's 
 fifth ball goes to the boundary. 
 
 Three runs to make and two and a half minutes to 
 play! 
 
 The Duffer sends down the last ball. The Rev. 
 Septimus covers his eyes. O wretched Duffer! O 
 thou whose knees are as wax, and whose arms are as 
 chop-sticks in the hands of a Griffin! O egregious 
 Duff! O degenerate son of a noble sire, dost thou 
 dare at such a moment as this to attack thine enemy 
 with a — long hop? 
 
 The square, thick-set bowler shows his teeth as 
 the ball pitches short. Then he smites and runs. 
 Runs, because he has smitten so hard that no hand, 
 
" LORD'S " 277 
 
 surely, can stop the whirling sphere. Runs — ay — 
 and so does the Demon at cover point. This Is the 
 Demon's amazing conjuring-trick — ^what else can 
 you call it? And he has practised It so often, that 
 he reckons failure to be almost impossible. To those 
 watching he seems to spring like a tiger at the ball. 
 By Heaven ! he has stopped it — he's snapped it up ! 
 But if he despatches It to the wicket-keeper, it will 
 arrive too late. The other Etonian is already within 
 a couple of yards of the crease. Scaife does not hesi- 
 tate. He aims at the bowler's wicket towards which 
 the burly one is running as fast as legs a thought too 
 short can carry him. 
 
 He aims and shies — Instantaneously. He shat- 
 ters the wicket. 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 The appeal comes from every part of the ground. 
 
 And then, clearly and unmistakably, the umpire's 
 fiat is spoken — 
 
 "Out!" 
 
 The Rev. Sep rises and rushes off, upsetting 
 chairs, treading on toes, bent only upon being the 
 first to tell Warde that Harrow has won. 
 
 "lo! lot lol" 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 " IF I PERISH, I PERISH " 
 
 " Since we deserved the name of ftiends, 
 And thine effect so lives in me, 
 A part of mine may live in thee 
 And move thee on to noble ends." 
 
 The cheering at Bill upon the following Tuesday 
 must be recorded, Inasmuch as it has, indirectly, 
 bearing upon our story. It will be guessed that the 
 enthusiasm, the uproar, the tumultuous excitement 
 were even greater than on a similar occasion some 
 fifteen years before. But, to his amazement, Des- 
 mond, not Scaife, was made the particular hero of 
 the hour. Scaife's display of temper festered in the 
 hearts of boys who can forgive anything sooner than 
 low breeding. The Hill had seen the Etonian stop 
 to speak his cheery word of congratulation to Caesar, 
 and not the Caterpillar alone, but urchins of thirteen 
 had made comparisons. 
 
 Scaife, however, could not complain of his recep- 
 tion upon that memorable Tuesday afternoon; the 
 cheering must have been heard a mile away. But 
 Desmond was acclaimed differently. The cheers 
 were no louder — that was impossible — ^but after- 
 wards, when the excitement had simmered down, 
 
 278 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 279 
 
 Caesar became the object of a special demonstration 
 by the Monitors and Sixth Form. Nearly every boy 
 of note in the Upper School insisted upon shaking 
 his hand or patting him on the back. Scaife came 
 up with the others, but he left the Yard almost im- 
 mediately and retired to his room. He had won the 
 great match; Desmond had saved it; and the School 
 apprehended the subtle difference. More, Scaife 
 knew that John had gone up to Desmond with out- 
 stretched hands after the match at Lord's. He could 
 hear John's eager voice, see the flame of admiration 
 in his eyes, as he said, " Oh, Cssar, I am glad it 
 was you who made that catch ! " And- with those 
 generous words, with that warm clasp of the hand, 
 Scaife had seen the barrier which he had built be- 
 tween the friends dissolve like ice in the dog-days. 
 
 The attention of the Manor was now fixed upon 
 the house matches. It seemed probable that with 
 four members of the School Eleven in the team, the 
 ancient house must prove invincible. But to John's 
 surprise, as this delightful probability ripened into 
 conviction, Warde betrayed unwonted anxiety and 
 even irritability. Miss Iris confided to Desmond, 
 who paid her much court, that she couldn't imagine 
 what was the matter with papa. And mamma, it 
 transpired (from the same source), really feared 
 that the strain at Lord's had been too much, that her 
 indefatigable husband was about to break down. 
 Finally, John made up his mind to ask a question. 
 He was second In command; he had a right to ask 
 
28o THE HILU 
 
 the chief if anything were seriously amiss. Accord- 
 ingly, he waited upon Warde after prayers. 
 
 But when he put his question, and expressed, mod- 
 estly enough, his anxiety and desire to help if he 
 could, Warde bit his lips. Then he burst out vio- 
 lently — 
 
 " I am miserable, Verney." 
 
 John said nothing. His tutor rose and began to 
 pace up and down the study ; then, halting, facing 
 John, he spoke quickly, with restless gestures indi- 
 cating volcanic disturbance. 
 
 " I'm between the devil and the deep sea," he 
 said, " as many a better man has been before me. I 
 thought I'd wiped out the grosser evils in the Manor, 
 but I haven't — I haven't. Do you know that a fel- 
 low in this house, perhaps two, but one at any rate, 
 is getting out at night and going up to town? You 
 needn't answer, Verney. If you do know it, you are 
 powerless to prevent it, or it wouldn't occur." 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 " I can only guess who it is, I am not certain. 
 And to make certain, I must play the spy, creep and 
 crawl, do what I loathe to do — suspect the innocent 
 together with the guilty. It's almost breaking my 
 heart." 
 
 " I can understand that, sir, after what you have 
 done for us." 
 
 Warde smiled grimly. " I don't think you do 
 quite understand," he said slowly. " At this moment 
 I am tempted, tempted as I never have been tempted, 
 to let things slide, to shut both eyes and ears, till this 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 281 
 
 term is over. Next term " — he laughed harshly — 
 " I shan't stand in such an awkward place. The 
 deep sea will always be near me, but the devil — the 
 devil will be elsewhere." 
 
 John nodded. His serious face expressed neither 
 approval nor disapproval to the man keenly watch- 
 ing it. Afterwards Warde remembered this impas- 
 sivity. 
 
 " If I do not act " — ^Warde's voice trembled — " I 
 am damned as a traitor in my own eyes." 
 
 John had never doubted that his house-master 
 would act. As for creeping and crawling, can peaks 
 be scaled without creeping and crawling ? Never 
 
 " You are not to speak a word of warning," 
 Warde continued vehemently. " If you know what 
 I don't know yet, still you cannot speak to me, be- 
 cause the sinner in this case is a Sixth Form boy. 
 You cannot speak to me; and you will not speak to 
 him, on your honour? " 
 
 There was interrogation in the last sentence. John 
 replied almost inaudibly — 
 
 " I shall not speak — on my honour! " 
 
 " It is hard, hard indeed, that I should have to 
 foul my own nest, but it must be so. Good night." 
 
 John went back to his room, calm without, ter- 
 ribly agitated within. What ruthless spirit had 
 driven him to Warde's study? Yes; at last,- inex- 
 orably, discovery, disgrace, the ineffaceable brand of 
 expulsion, impended over the head of his enemy, to 
 whom he was pledged to utter no word of warning. 
 Like Warde, he did not know absolutely, but he 
 
282 THE hill; 
 
 guessed that Scaife had spent another riotous night 
 in town since the match. He had read it in the eyes 
 glittering with excitement, in the derisive smile of 
 conscious power, in the magnetic audacity of Scaife's 
 glance. And then he remembered Lawrence's part- 
 ing words — 
 
 " It will be a fight to a finish, and, mark me, 
 Warde will win ! " 
 
 Two wretched days and nights passed. More than 
 once John spurred himself to the point of going to 
 Warde and saying, " Think what you like of me, 
 I am going to warn the boy I loathe that you are 
 at his heels." Still, always at the last moment he did 
 not go. Some power seemed to restrain him. But 
 when he tried to analyse his feelings, he confessed 
 himself muddled. He had obtained, nay, invited, 
 Warde's confidence; and he dared not abuse It. It 
 was a time of anguish. He was unable to concen- 
 trate his mind upon work or play, deprived of sleep, 
 haunted by the conviction that if Desmond knew all, 
 he would turn from him for ever. Then, at the 
 most difficult moment of his life, the way of escape 
 was opened. 
 
 Since the match, John and Caesar had resumed the 
 former unrestrained and continual intimacy and in- 
 tercourse. John was in and out of Desmond's room, 
 Desmond was in and out of John's room, at all 
 hours. They " found " together, of course, but it is 
 not, fortunately, at meals that boys or men discuss 
 the things nearest to their hearts. But at night, just 
 before lights were turned out, or just after, when an 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 283 
 
 Olympian is privileged to work a little longer by 
 the light of the useful " tolly," Caesar and Jonathan 
 would talk freely of past, present, and future. It 
 was during these much-valued minutes, or on Sunday 
 afternoons, that John would read to his friend the 
 essays or verses which always fired Desmond's ad- 
 miration and enthusiasm. To John's intellectual 
 activities Caesar played, so to speak, gallery; even as 
 John upon many an afternoon had sat stewing in the 
 covered racquet-court, applauding Desmond's serv- 
 ice into the corner, or his hot returns just above the 
 line. At home, in the holidays, the boys had always 
 met upon the same plane. Of the two, John was the 
 better rider and shot. Both were members of the 
 Philathletic Club ^ of Harrow, and the fact that Des- 
 mond was incomparably his superior as an athlete 
 was counterbalanced by John's fine intellectual attain- 
 ments. If John, at times, wished that he could cut 
 behind the wicket in Cassar's faultless style, Des- 
 mond, on the other hand, spoke enviously of the 
 Medal, or the Essay, or some other of John's suc- 
 cesses. John spoke often and well in the Debating 
 Society, getting up his subjects with intelligence and 
 care. So it was give-and-take between them, and this 
 adjusted the balance of their friendship, and without 
 this no friendship can be pronounced perfect. 
 None the less, free and delightful as this resump- 
 
 1 The Philathletic Club deals primarily with all matters which 
 concern Harrow games; it is also a social club. Distinguished 
 athletes, monitors, and so forth, are eligible for membership. The 
 Head of the School is ex officio President. 
 
284 THE HILL 
 
 tion of the old intimacy had been, John knew Caesar 
 too well not to perceive that between them lay an 
 unmentionable five weeks, during which something 
 had occurred. From signs only too well interpreted 
 before, John guessed that Cassar was once more in 
 debt to the Demon. And finally, Caesar confessed 
 that he had been betting, that he had won, following 
 Scaife's advice, and then had lost. The loss was 
 greater than the gain, and the difference, some five 
 and twenty pounds, had been sent to Scaife's book- 
 maker by Scaife. As before, Scaife ridiculed the 
 possibility of such a debt causing his pal any uneasi- 
 ness, but it chafed Desmond consumedly. 
 
 Upon the Saturday of the semi-final house match, 
 in which the Manor had won a great victory by an 
 innings and twenty-three runs, John went to Des- 
 mond's room after prayers. He noticed at once that 
 his friend was unusually excited. John, however, 
 attributed this to Caesar's big score. Success always 
 inflamed Caesar, just as it seemed to tranquillize John. 
 John began to talk, but he noticed that Caesar was 
 abstracted, answered in monosyllables, and twice 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 " Have you an appointment, Caesar? " 
 
 *' No. What were you saying, Jonathan? " 
 
 " You look rather queer to-night." 
 
 " Do I ? " He laughed nervously. 
 
 "You're not bothering over that debt? " 
 
 This time Csesar laughed naturally. 
 
 " Rather not. Why, that debt " He stopped. 
 
 "Is it paid? "said John. 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 285 
 
 "It will be. Don't worry!" 
 
 But John looked worried. He perceived that 
 Cssar's finely-formed hands were trembling, when- 
 ever they were still. 
 
 " Harry," said he — he never called Desmond 
 Harry except when they were at home — " Harry, 
 what's wrong? " 
 
 " Why, nothing — nothing, that Is, which amounts 
 to anything." 
 
 " Harry, you are the worst liar in England. 
 Something is wrong. Can't you tell me? You must. 
 I'm hanged If I leave you till you do tell me." 
 
 He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey 
 eyes were tiny dancing flecks of golden brown, which 
 Desmond had seen once or twice before, — which 
 came whenever John was profoundly moved. The 
 dancing flecks transformed themselves In Desmond's 
 fancy into sprites, the airy creatures of John's will, 
 Imposing John's wishes and commands. 
 
 " Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked." 
 
 " Scaife ? " John drew in his breath. " Then 
 Scaife wanted you to tell me; I am sure of that." 
 He felt his way by the dim light of smouldering sus- 
 picion. If Scaife wanted John to know anything, it 
 was because such knowledge must prove pain, not 
 pleasure. John did not say this. Then, very ab- 
 ruptly, Desmond continued, " You swear that what 
 I'm about to tell you will be regarded as sacred? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not 
 you. You won't interfere ? " 
 
286 THE HILL 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I'm going to London." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Don't look at me like that, you silly old ass! 
 It's not — not what you think," he laughed nervously, 
 " I have bet Scaife twenty-five pounds, the amount 
 of my debt in fact, that the bill-of-fare of to-night's 
 supper at the Carleton Hotel will be handed to him 
 after Chapel to-morrow morning. I bike up to town, 
 and bike back. If I don't go this Saturday, I have 
 one more chance before the term is over. That's 
 ail." 
 
 " That's all," repeated John, stupefied. 
 
 " If you can show me an easier way to make a 
 ' pony,' I'll be obliged to you." 
 
 " Scaife egged you on to this piece of folly? " 
 
 " No, he didn't." 
 
 "You may as well make a clean breast of 
 it." 
 
 Bit by bit John extracted the facts. Behind them, 
 of course, stood Scaife, loving evil for evil's sake, 
 planting evil, gleaning evil, deliberately setting about 
 the devil's work. Desmond, it appeared, had per- 
 suaded Scaife not to go to town till the Lord's match 
 was over. Since the match Scaife had spent two 
 nights in London, whetting an inordinate appetite 
 for forbidden fruit; exciting in Desmond also, not 
 an appetite for the fruit itself, but for the mad ex- 
 citement of a perilous adventure. Then, when the 
 thoughtless " I'd like a lark of that sort " had been 
 spoken, came the derisive answer, " You haven't the 
 
"IE I PERISH, I PERISH" 287 
 
 nerve for It." And then again the subtle leading of 
 an ardent and self-willed nature Into the morass, 
 Scaife pretending to dissuade a friend, entreating 
 him to consider the risk, urging him to go to bed, as 
 If he were a headstrong child. And finally Des- 
 mond's challenge, " Bet you I have the nerve," and 
 its acceptance, protestingly, by the other, and per- 
 mission given that John should be told. 
 
 "And it's to-night?" 
 
 " I mean to have that bill-of-fare. Do you think 
 I'd back out now ? " 
 
 In his mind's eye, our poor John was gazing down 
 a long lane with no turning at the end of it. Could 
 he make his friend believe that Scaiie had brought 
 this thing to pass from no other motive than wish- 
 ing to hurt mortally an enemy by the hand of a 
 friend? No, never would such an Ingenuous youth 
 as Cassar accept, or even listen to, such an abomi- 
 nable explanation. 
 
 " Good night," said John. 
 
 "I see you're rather sick with me, Jonathan. Re- 
 member, you made me speak. To-morrow morning 
 we'll have a good laugh over It. We'll walk to the 
 Haunted House, and I'll tell my tale. I shall be on 
 my way In less than an hour." 
 
 John went back to his room. The necessity for 
 silence and thought had become Imperative. What 
 could he do ? It was certain that Warde was waiting 
 and watching. He had Inexhaustible patience. Des- 
 mond, not the Demon, would be caught and expelled. 
 John returned to Desmond's room. 
 
288 tTHE HILL 
 
 " You've told me so much," he said; " tell me a 
 little more. How are you going to do it? " 
 
 "To do what?" 
 
 "Get out of the house? Get a bike — and all 
 that?" 
 
 "Easy. Lovell went out that way, and others. 
 You jump from the sill of the first landing window 
 into the horse-chestnut. One must be able to jump, 
 of course; but I can jump. Then you shin down the 
 tree, nip through the shrubbery, and over the locked 
 wicket-gate." 
 
 " Yes," John said slowly, " over the gate." 
 
 " I borrowed a bike from one of the Cycle Corps, 
 and have hidden it in the garden, In a bush to the 
 right of the gate." 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 " It's moonlight after ten; I shall enjoy the ride 
 Immensely." 
 
 " You will try to get back into the house at 
 night?" 
 
 "Too dangerous. Lovell did It; but the Demon 
 marches In boldly just before Chapel. He may have 
 slipped out on half a dozen errands as soon as the 
 door is opened In the morning, I shall sleep under 
 a stack. It's a lovely night. Now, old Jonathan, 
 I hope you're satisfied that I'm not either the fool 
 or the sinner you took me to be." 
 
 " Look here, Harry. If I appeal to you in 
 the name of our friendship; if I ask you for my 
 sake and for my mother's sake not to do this 
 thing ^" 
 
«IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 289 
 
 "Jonathan, I must go. Don't make it harder 
 than it is." 
 
 "Then it is hard?" 
 
 " I won't whine about that. I courted this ad- 
 venture, and, by Jove ! I'm going to see It through. 
 The odds are a hundred to one against my being 
 nailed." 
 
 " AH right; I'll say no more. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, old Jonathan." 
 
 John went back to his room, waited three minutes, 
 and then, in despair, made up his mind to seek Scaife. 
 He felt certain that the Demon's extraordinary luck 
 was about to stand between him and expulsion. Des- 
 mond would be caught red-handed, but not he. John 
 ground his teeth with rage at the thought. He 
 found Scaife alone — at work on cricketing ac- 
 counts. 
 
 "Hullo, Verneyl" 
 
 " Cassar tells me that he is going up to London 
 to-night." 
 
 " Oh, he told you that, did he? " 
 
 " Yes; you wished him to tell me? " 
 
 " Perhaps." Scaife laughed louder. 
 
 " You want to prove to me," said John, slowly, 
 " that you are the stronger? " 
 
 " Perhaps." Scaife laughed. 
 
 "Well, if I surrender, if I admit that you are 
 the stronger, that you have defeated me, won't that 
 be enough? " 
 
 "Eh? I don't quite take you." 
 
 " You are the stronger." John's voice was very 
 
290 THE hill; 
 
 miserable. " I have tried to dissuade him, as you 
 knew I should try, and I have failed. Isn't that 
 enough ? You have your triumph. But now be gen- 
 erous. Turn round and use your strength the other 
 way. Make him give up this folly. You don't want 
 to see your own pal sacked? " 
 
 " Precious little chance of that 1 " 
 
 " There is the chance." 
 
 Scaife hesitated. Did some worthier impulse stir 
 within him? Who can tell? His keen eye softened, 
 and then hardened again. 
 
 " No," he said quickly. " If I agree to what you 
 propose, it Is, after all, you who triumph, not I. 
 And I doubt if I could stop him now, even if I 
 tried." He laughed again, for the third time, sav- 
 agely. " You are hoist with your own petard, Ver- 
 ney. You wanted to see me sacked; and now that 
 there Is a chance in a thousand that Caesar will be 
 sacked, you squirm. I swore to get my knife into 
 you, and, by God, I've done it." 
 
 John went out, very pale. He passed through into 
 the private side, and tapped at Warde's study door. 
 Mrs. Warde's voice bade him enter. She looked at 
 John's face. Afterwards she testified that he looked 
 singularly cool and self-possessed. 
 
 " I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said. 
 
 " He's dining at the Head Master's." 
 
 "Will he be In soon?" 
 
 " I — er — don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't 
 wait for him, Verney, if I were you." 
 
 "Thank you," said John. " Good night." 
 
" IF I PERISH, I PERISH » 291 
 
 He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's 
 eyes he had read — ^what? Excitement? Apprehen- 
 sion? Suddenly, conviction came to him that this 
 dinner at the Head Master's was a blind. Why, 
 during that very afternoon, Warde had mentioned 
 casually to Scaife that he was dining out. He had 
 deliberately informed the Demon that the coast was 
 clear. And at this moment, probably, Warde lay 
 concealed near the chestnut tree, waiting, watching, 
 about to pounce upon the wrong man ! 
 
 The temptation to cry " Cave! " tore at his vitals. 
 Till this moment the tyranny of honour had never 
 oppressed John. Having resolved to tell Warde 
 that he meant to break his word, it may seem inex- 
 plicable that he shouldn't go a step further and break 
 his word without warning the house-master. Upon 
 such nice points of conscience hang issues of world- 
 wide importance. To John, at any rate, the differ- 
 ence between the two paths out of a tangled wood 
 was greater than it might appear to some of us. 
 Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring 
 himself to violate Warde's confidence without giving 
 the man notice ? 
 
 However, what he might have done under pres- 
 sure must remain a matter of surmise. At this 
 moment a third path became visible. And down it 
 John rusTied, without consideration as to where it 
 might lead. The one thing plain at this crisis was 
 the certainty that he had discovered a plan of action 
 which would save two things he valued supremely — 
 his friendship for Caesar and his word of honour. 
 
292 , THE HILL 
 
 Here we are at liberty to speculate what John 
 would have done had he considered dispassionately 
 the consequences of an action to be accomplished at 
 once or not at all. But he had not time to consider 
 anything except the fact that action would put to 
 rout some very tormenting thoughts. 
 
 He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and 
 put on a hat and a thin overcoat, as all lights in the 
 boys' side of the Manor were extinguished. Then 
 he stole out of his room, and crept to the window at 
 ihe end of the passage. A moment later, he had 
 squeezed through It, and was standing upon the sill 
 outside, gazing fearfully at the void beneath, and 
 the distance between the sill and the branch in front 
 of him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment 
 was the siost difficult. He was an active boy, but 
 he had never jumped such a chasm. If he missed 
 the bough 
 
 To hesitate iueant shameful retreat. John felt 
 the sweat break upon him; craven fear clutched his 
 heart-strings, and set them a-j angling. 
 
 He jumped. 
 
 The ease with which he caught the branch was 
 such a physical relief that he almost forgot his er- 
 rand. He slid quietly down the tree, pausing as he 
 reached the bottom of it. The moon was just rising 
 above the horizon, but under the trees the darkness 
 was Stygian. John pushed quietly through the 
 shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible. Every 
 moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to 
 hear Warde's voice, to feel an arresting hand upon 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 293 
 
 the shoulder. It was quite impossible to guess with 
 any reasonable accuracy what part of the garden 
 Warde had selected for a hiding-place. Very soon 
 he reached the edge of the shrubbery, and gazed 
 keenly into the moonlit, park-like meadow below 
 him. Peer as he might, he could see no trace of 
 Warde. A dozen trees might conceal him. Per- 
 haps with the omniscience of the house-master, he 
 had divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate 
 place of egress. Perhaps the wicket had been used 
 for a similar purpose when Warde himself was a 
 boy at the Manor. It was vital to John's plan that 
 Warde should see him without recognising him, and 
 give chase. The chase would epd in capture at some 
 point as reasonably far from the Manor as possible. 
 Warde might ask for explanations, but none would 
 be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the 
 coast would be clear for Desmond. John, in fine, 
 was playing the part of a pilot-engine. 
 
 But where was Warde? 
 
 The question answered itself within a minute, and 
 after a fashion absolutely unforeseen. As John was 
 crossing from the shrubbery to the wicket he looked 
 back. To his horror, he saw lights in the boys' side, 
 light in the window of Scaife's room. Instantly John 
 divined what had come to pass, and cursed himself 
 for a fool. Warde, from some coign of vantage, had 
 seen a boy leave his house. Why should he try to 
 arrest the boy? Why should he risk the humiliation 
 of running after him, and, perhaps, failing to capture 
 him? No, no; men of forty were not likely to work 
 
294 'THE HILt; 
 
 in that boyish fashion. Warde had adopted an infi- 
 nitely better plan. Assured that a boy had left the 
 house, he had nothing to do but walk round the 
 rooms and find out which one was absent. He had 
 begun with Scaife. Next to Scaife was the room 
 belonging to the Head of the House; then came 
 John's room, and then Caesar's. Long before Warde 
 reached Caesar's room, Cassar would have heard him. 
 Caesar, at any rate, was saved. John crept back un- 
 der cover of the shrubberies. He saw the light 
 flicker out of Scaife's window, and shine more 
 steadily in the next room. The window of this room 
 was open, and John could hear the voice of Warde 
 and the Head of the House. John waited. And 
 then the light shone in Desmond's room. John 
 crouched against the wall, trembling. If Caesar had 
 
 not heard the voices, if he were fully dressed, if 
 
 Suddenly he caught Warde's reassuring words: 
 " Ah, Desmond, sorry to disturb you. Good night." 
 
 John waited. Very soon Scaife would come to 
 Desmond's room. Ah ! Just so. The night was so 
 still that he could hear quite plainly the boys' muf- 
 fled voices. 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
 " Warde is going his rounds. Perhaps he smells 
 a rat." 
 
 And then whispers I John strained his ears. Only 
 
 a word or two more reached him. " Verney 
 
 D — d interfering sneak ! Let's see ! " It was Scaife 
 who was speaking. 
 
 John heard his own door opened and shut. Scaife, 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 295 
 
 then, had discovered his absence, and naturally 
 leaped to the conclusion that he had warned Warde. 
 Let him think sol The boys were still whispering 
 together. " Not to-night," Scaife said decisively. 
 " No, no," Desmond replied. 
 
 John wondered what remained to be done. 
 Warde, of course, would satisfy himself that no boy 
 in his house was missing except John, before he pro- 
 nounced him the absentee. Poor Warde! This 
 would be a hard knock for him. John's thoughts 
 were jostling each other freely, when he recalled 
 Desmond's words: " I have one more chance before 
 the term is over." He had wished to clear the way 
 for his friend, not to block it. Then he remembered 
 the terms of the bet, and laughed. 
 
 He ran back to the wicket, found the bicycle, lit 
 the lamp, and hoisted the machine over the gate. 
 Then he laughed again. After all, this escaping 
 from bondage, this midnight adventure beneath the 
 Impending sword of expulsion, thrilled him to the 
 marrow. 
 
 When John returned on Sunday to the Manor, 
 shortly after the doors were unlocked in the morning, 
 he found Dumbleton awaiting him. Dumber's face 
 expressed such amazement and consternation that 
 John nearly laughed In spite of himself. 
 
 " It's all hup, sir," said the butler. Only in mo- 
 ments of intense excitement did Dumber misplace 
 or leave out the aspirate. " You're to come with me 
 at once to Mr. Warde's study." 
 
296 THE HILL 
 
 John followed the butler into the familiar room. 
 Warde was not down yet, but evidently Dumber had 
 instructions not to leave the prisoner. John stared 
 at the writing-desk. Then he turned to Dumbleton, 
 and said carelessly — 
 
 " This means the sack, eh, Dumber? " 
 , " Yes, sir. 'Ow could you do it, sir? Such a well- 
 be'aved gentleman too ! " 
 
 " Thank you. Dumber." John took an envelope 
 from the desk, and wrote Scaife's name upon it. 
 
 " Dumber, please give Mr. Scaife this — with my 
 compliments. It is, as you see, a bill of fare." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 John placed the card into the envelope and handed 
 both to Dumbleton. 
 
 "With my compliments! " 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " And after Chapel." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 A moment later Warde came in. Dumbleton 
 went out immediately with a sorrowful, backward 
 glance at John. The good fellow looked terribly be- 
 wildered. For John's face, John's deportment, had 
 amazed him. John was quite unaware of it, but he 
 looked astonishingly well. The excitement had 
 flushed his cheek and lent a sparkle to his grey eyes. 
 He had enjoyed his ride to town and back; he had 
 slept soundly under the lee of a stack; and he had 
 washed his face and hands in the horse-trough at 
 the foot of Sudbury Hill. And the certainty that 
 Desmond was safe, that in the end he, John, had 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 297 
 
 triumphed over Scaife, filled his soul with joy. 
 Warde, on the other hand, looked wretched ; he had 
 passed a sleepless night; he was pale, haggard, 
 gaunt. 
 
 " What have you to say, Verney? " 
 
 " Nothing, sir." 
 
 " Nothing." Warde clenched his hands, and 
 burst into speech, letting all that he had suffered and 
 suppressed escape in tumultuous words and gestures. 
 " Nothing. You dare to stand there and say — noth- 
 ing. That you should have done this thing ! Why, 
 it's incredible I And I who have trusted you. And 
 you listened to me with a face like brass, laughing 
 in your sleeve, no doubt, at the fool who betrayed 
 himself. And you came here, so my wife tells me, 
 to see if I was out of the way, if the coast was clear. 
 And you were cool as a cucumber. Oh, you hypo- 
 crite, you damnable hypocrite! I have to see you 
 now, but never again will I look willingly upon your 
 face, never! Well, this wretched business must be 
 ended. You got out of my house last night. You 
 heard I was dining with the Head Master. I re- 
 turned early, and I saw you jump from the passage 
 window. You don't deny that you went up to Lon* 
 don, I suppose? " 
 
 "No, sir; I don't deny it." 
 
 At the moment John, quite unconsciously, looked 
 as if he were glorying in what he had done. Warde 
 could have struck his clean, clear face, unblushingly 
 meeting his furious glance. In disgust, he turned 
 his back and walked to the window. John felt rather 
 
298 THE HILL 
 
 than saw that his tutor was profoundly moved. 
 When he turned, two tears were trickling down his 
 cheeks. The sight of them nearly undid John. 
 When Warde spoke again, his voice was choked by 
 his emotion. 
 
 " Verney," he said, " I spoke just now in an unre- 
 strained manner, because you — ^you " — his voice 
 trembled — " have shaken my faith in all I hold most 
 dear. I say to you — I say to you that I believed in 
 you as I believe in my wife. Even now I feel that 
 somehow there is a mistake — that you are not what 
 you confess yourself to be — a brazen-faced humbug. 
 You have worked as I have worked for this House, 
 and In one moment you undo that work. Have you 
 paused to think what effect this will hate upon the 
 others?" 
 
 " Not yet, sir." 
 
 John looked respectfully sympathetic. Poor 
 Warde ! This was tough indeed upon him. 
 
 Suddenly the door was flung open, and Desmond 
 burst into the room, with a complete disregard of the 
 customary proprieties, and rushed up to Warde. 
 
 " Sir," he said vehemently, " Verney did this to 
 save — me! " 
 
 Warde saw the slow smile break upon John's face. 
 And, seeing it, he came as near hysterical laughter 
 as a man of his character and temperament can come. 
 He perceived that John, for some amazing reason, 
 had played the scape-goat ; that, in fact, he was inno- 
 cent — not a humbug, not a hypocrite, not a brazen- 
 faced sinner. And the relief was so stupendous that 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 299 
 
 the tutor flung himself back into a chair, gasping. 
 Desmond spoke quietly. 
 
 " I was going to town, sir. For the first time, I 
 swear. And only to win a bet, and for the excite- 
 ment of jumping out of a window. John tried to 
 dissuade me. When he exhausted every argument, 
 he went himself." 
 
 " The Lord be praised! " said Warde. He had 
 divined everything ; but he let Desmond tell the story 
 in detail. Scaife's name was left out of the narra- 
 tive. 
 
 Then Warde said slowly, ■' I shall not refer this 
 business to the Head Master; I shall deal with it 
 myself. For your own sake, Desmond, for the sake 
 of your father, and, above all else, for the sake of 
 this House, I shall do no more than ask you to 
 promise that, for the rest of your time at Harrow, 
 you will endeavour to atone for what has been." 
 
 All boys worth their salt are creatures of reserves ; 
 let us respect them. It is easy to surmise what 
 passed between the friends — the gratitude, the self- 
 reproach, the humiliation on one side ; the sympathy, 
 the encouragement and shy, restrained affection on 
 the other. A bitter-sweet moment for John this, 
 revealing, without disguise, the weakness of Des- 
 mond's character, but illuminating the triumph over 
 Scaife, the all-powerful. John had been inhuman if 
 this knowledge had not been as spikenard to him. 
 
 Chapel over, the boys came pouring back into the 
 house. In a minute the fags would be hurrying up 
 
300 THE HILL 
 
 with the tea and the jam-pots, asking for orders; In 
 a minute Scaife would rush in with questions hot 
 upon his lips. John chuckled to himself as he heard 
 Scalfe's step. 
 
 "Hullo, Gffisar! Why did you cut Chapel? 
 And " 
 
 John saw that the Carlton supper-card was in his 
 hand. He chuckled again. 
 
 " Dumber has just given me — this. Did you go, 
 after all? " he asked Caesar. They had not met since 
 Warde's visit of the night before. 
 
 " I didn't go," said Ceesar, 
 
 *' Dumber gave It to me, with Verney's compli- 
 ments." 
 
 " You've lost your bet," said John. 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " Jonathan went to town Instead of me," said Des- 
 mond. " We thought he was with Warde — he 
 wasn't. This morning, early, I found out that he 
 hadn't slept in his bed. I saw him come back, and I 
 saw Dumber waiting for him. When Dumber came 
 out of Warde'^ room, he told me that Jonathan had 
 been up to town, and was going to be — sacked." 
 
 He blurted out the rest of the story, to which 
 Scaife listened attentively. When Desmond finished, 
 there was a pause. 
 
 " You're devilish clever," said Scaife to John. 
 
 " I shall pay up the pony," said Desmond. 
 
 " No, you won't," said Scaife. " As for the 
 money, I never cared a hang about that. I'm glad 
 •^■9^4 yot ought to know it — that you've won the 
 
"IF I PERISH, I PERISH" 301 
 
 bet. All the same, Verney isn't entitled to all "the 
 glory that you give him." 
 
 " He is, he is — and more, too." 
 
 Scaife laughed. John felt rather uncomfortable. 
 Always Scaife exhibited his amazing resource at un- 
 expected moments. 
 
 " Never mind," Scaife continued, " I won't burst 
 the pretty bubble. And I admit, remember, Ver- 
 ney's cleverness." 
 
 He was turning to go, but Desmond clutched his 
 sleeve. When he spoke his fair face was scarlet. 
 
 " You sneer at the wrong man and at the wrong 
 time," he said angrily, " and you talk as though I 
 was a fool. Well, I am a fool, perhaps, and I blow 
 bubbles. Prick this one, if you can. I challenge 
 you to do it." 
 
 Scaife shrugged his shoulders. " It's so obvious," 
 he said coolly, " that your kind friend ran no risks 
 other than a sprained ankle or a cold." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " He was certain that you would come forward. 
 He forced your hand. There was never the smallest 
 chance of his being sacked, and he knew it." 
 
 " Yes," said John, calmly, " I knew it." 
 
 " Just so," said Scaife. He went out whistling. 
 
 Desmond had time to whisper to John before the 
 fags called them to breakfast in John's room — 
 
 " I say, Jonathan, I'm glad you knew that I 
 wouldn't fail you. As the Demon says, you are 
 clever; you are a sight cleverer than he is." 
 
 John shook his head. " I'm slow," he said. " As 
 
302 THE hill; 
 
 a matter of fact, the thought that you would come 
 to the rescue never occurred to me till I was biking 
 back from town." 
 
 " Anyway, you saved me from being sacked, and 
 as long as I live I " 
 
 " Come on to breakfast," said John. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 GOOD NIGHT 
 
 •Good night! Sleep, and so may ever 
 Lights half seen across a murky lea 
 Child of hope, and courage and endeavour, 
 Gleam a voiceless benison on thee I 
 Youth be bearer 
 
 Soon of hardihood; 
 Life be fairer, 
 Loyaller to good; 
 Till the far lamps vanish into light. 
 Rest in the dreamtime. Good night ! Good night ! " 
 
 The last Saturday of the summer term saw the 
 Manor cock-house at cricket: almost a foregone con- 
 clusion, and therefore not particularly interesting to 
 outsiders. During the morning Scaife gave his fare- 
 well " brekker " ^ at the Creameries; a banquet of the 
 Olympians to which John received an invitation. He 
 accepted because Desmond made a point of his so 
 doing; but he was quite aware that beneath the 
 veneer of the Demon's genial smile lay implacable 
 hatred and resentment. The breakfast in itself 
 struck John as ostentatious. Scaife's father sent 
 quails, a la Lucullus, and other delicacies. Through- 
 out the meal the talk was of the coming war. At 
 
 1 Brekker, i.e. breakfast. 
 
304 TH£ HILL 
 
 that time most of the Conservative papers" pooh- 
 poohed the possibility of an appeal to arms, but 
 Scaife's father, admittedly a great authority on South 
 African affairs, had told his son a fight was inevit- 
 able. More, he and his friends were already prepar- 
 ing to raise a regiment of mounted infantry. At 
 breakfast Scaife announced this piece of news, and 
 added that in the event of hostilities he would join 
 this regiment, and not try to pass into Sandhurst. 
 And he added that any of his friends who were pres- 
 ent, and over eighteen years of age, were cordially 
 invited to send in their names, and that he personally 
 would do all that was possible to secure them billets. 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth, when 
 Caesar Desmond was on his feet, with an eager — 
 
 " Put me down. Demon ; put me down first ! " 
 
 And then Scaife glanced at John, as he an- 
 swered — 
 
 " Right you are, Caesar, and if things go well 
 with us, I fancy that we shall get our commissions 
 in regular regiments soon enough. The governor 
 has had a hint to that effect. Let's drink success to 
 ' Scaife's Horse.' " 
 
 The toast was drunk with enthusiasm. 
 
 During the holidays, John saw nothing of Des- 
 mond, although they wrote to each other once a 
 week. John was reading hard with an eye to a pos- 
 sible Scholarship at Oxford; Desmond was playing 
 cricket with Scaife. Later, Desmond went to the 
 Scaife moor in Scotland. John noted that his 
 friend's letters were full of two things only: sport, 
 
GOOD NIGHT 305 
 
 and the ever-increasing probability of war. At the 
 end of August John Verney, the explorer, returning 
 to Verney Boscobel after an absence of nearly four 
 years, began to write his now famous book on the 
 Far East. Then John learned from his mother that 
 his uncle had borne all the charges of his education. 
 When he thanked him, the uncle said warmly — 
 
 " You have more than repaid me, my dear boy ; 
 not another word, please, about that. Warde tells 
 me they expect great things of you at Oxford." 
 
 Uncle and nephew were alone, after dinner. John 
 had noticed that the hardships endured in Man- 
 churia and Thibet had left scars upon the traveller. 
 His hair was white, he looked an old man ; one whose 
 wanderings in wild places must perforce come soon 
 to an end. 
 
 " Uncle," said John, " I want to chuck Oxford." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " I should like to go into the Army." 
 
 "Bless my soul!" 
 
 The explorer eyed his nephew with wrinkled 
 brow. John gave reasons; we can guess what they 
 were. The prospect of war had set all ardent souls 
 afire. 
 
 " I must think this over, my boy," the uncle re- 
 plied presently. " I must sleep on it. Have you told 
 your mother? " 
 
 " No ; I counted upon you to persuade her." 
 
 "Um. Now tell me about Lord's I Ah I I'm 
 sorry I missed that match." 
 f Next day, his uncle said nothing of what lay next 
 
 L.. 
 
3o6 THE HILL' 
 
 to John's heart, but the pair rode together over the 
 estate. During that ride it became plain to the young 
 man that his uncle had no intention of settling down. 
 Once or twice, in the driest, most matter-of-fact tone, 
 the elder spoke as if his heir were likely to inherit 
 soon. Finally, John blurted out a protest — 
 
 " But, uncle, you are a strong man. Why do you 
 
 talk as if — as if " the boy couldn't finish the 
 
 phrase. 
 
 " Tut, tut," said the uncle. " I know what I 
 know ; " and he fell into silence. 
 
 Not till the evening, after Mrs. Verney had gone 
 to bed, did the man of many wanderings speak 
 freely. 
 
 " John," said he, quietly, " I have a story to tell 
 you. Years ago, your father and I fell in love with 
 the same girl. She married the better man." He 
 paused to fill a pipe: John saw that his uncle's fin- 
 gers trembled slightly; but his voice was cool, meas- 
 ured, almost monotonous. " I made my first expedi- 
 tion to Patagonia. When I came back you were just 
 born; and I asked that I might be your godfather. 
 I went to Africa after the christening. And six years 
 later your father died. I think he had the purest and 
 most unselfish love of the poor and helpless that I 
 have ever known. He wore away his life in the serv- 
 ice of the outcast and forlorn. And before he died, 
 he expressed a wish that you should work as he did, 
 for others, but not in precisely the same way. He 
 knew, none better, the limitations imposed upon a 
 parson. He prayed that you might labour in a field 
 
GOOD NIGHT 307 
 
 larger than one parish. And I promised him that I 
 would do what I could when the time came. It has 
 come — to-night. In my opinion, in Warde's opin- 
 ion, in your dear mother's opinion. Parliament is the 
 place for you. You will be sufficiently well off. 
 Take all Oxford can give you, and then try for the 
 House of Commons. Charles Desmond will make 
 you one of his Private Secretaries. I have spoken 
 to him. You have a great career before you." 
 
 " But if war breaks out, uncle " 
 
 " War will break out. Don't misunderstand me 1 
 If you are wanted out there, and the thing is going 
 to be very serious, if you are wanted, you must go; 
 but decidedly you are not wanted yet. And you are 
 an only son; all your mother has. John, you must 
 think of her, and you will think of her, I know." 
 
 The conviction in his quiet voice communicated 
 itself to his nephew. There was a pause of nearly a 
 minute ; and then John answered, in a voice curiously 
 like his uncle's — 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Verney senior held out his hand. " I knew you 
 would say that," he murmured. 
 
 On the 1 8th of September, when John returned to 
 the Hill, the country had just learned that the pro- 
 posals of the Imperial Government to accept the note 
 of August 19 (provided it were not encumbered by 
 conditions which would nullify the intention to give 
 substantial representation to the Uitlanders) had not 
 been accepted. That this meant war, none, least of 
 
3o8 THE HILL 
 
 all a schoolboy, doubted. Desmond could talk of 
 nothing else. He told John that his father had 
 promised to let him leave Harrow before the end of 
 the term, if war were declared. The Demon, so 
 John was informed, had already made preparations. 
 He was taking out his three polo ponies, and had 
 hopes of being appointed Galloper to a certain Gen- 
 eral. Scaife's Horse was being organized, but in 
 any case would not take the field before several 
 months had elapsed; the Demon intended to be on 
 the spot when the first shot was fired. 
 
 To all this gunpowder-talk John listened with 
 envious ears and a curious sinking of the heart. He 
 had looked forward to having Desmond to himself; 
 and lo I his friend was seven thousand miles away — 
 on the veldt, not on the Hill. 
 
 " You are not keen," said Desmond. 
 
 On the day of the Goose Match, Saturday, Sep- 
 tember 30, Scaife came down to Harrow to take 
 leave of his friends. Already, John noted an extra- 
 ordinary difference in his manner and appearance. 
 He treated John to a slightly patronizing smile, 
 called him Jonathan, asked if he could be of service 
 to him, and posed most successfully as a sort of suck- 
 ing Alexander. 
 
 That he absorbed Desmond's eyes and mind was 
 indisputable. Everything outside South Africa, and 
 in particular the Hill and all things thereon, dwin- 
 dled into insignificance. Scaife made Desmond a 
 present of the very best maps obtainable, and nailed 
 them on the wall above the mantelpiece, pulling 
 
GOOD NIGHT 309 
 
 down a fine engraving which John had given to Des- 
 mond about a year before. Desmond uttered no 
 protest. The engraving was bundled out of sight 
 behind a sofa. 
 
 And after Scalfe's departure, Desmond talked 
 of him continually, and always with enthusiasm. 
 Warde added a note or two to the chorus. 
 
 " This is an opportunity for Scalfe," he told John. 
 " He may distinguish himself very greatly, and the 
 discipline of the camp will transmute the bad metal 
 Into gold. War is an alchemist." 
 
 Upon the nth of October war was declared. 
 
 After that, Desmond became as one possessed. 
 He went about saying that he pitied his father pro- 
 foundly because he was a civilian and non-com- 
 batant. Warde wrote to Charles Desmond: " If 
 you mean to send Harry out, send him at once. 
 He's fretting himself to fiddlestrings, doing no work, 
 and causing others to do no work also." 
 
 Sir William Symons' victory and death followed, 
 and then the mortifying retreat of General Yule. 
 Upon the 30th day of the month eight hundred and 
 fifty officers and men were Isolated and captured. 
 Who does not remember the wave of passionate In- 
 credulity that swept across the kingdom when the 
 evil tidings flashed over-seas? But Buller and his 
 staff were on the Dimottar Castle, and all Harro- 
 vians believed devoutly that within a month of 
 landing the Commander-in-Chief would drive the 
 invaders back and conquer the Transvaal. 
 
 Day after day, Desmond importuned his father. 
 
3IO THE HILD 
 
 The " fun " would be over, he pointed out, before he 
 got there — and so on. At last word came. A billet 
 had been obtained. Desmond received a long en- 
 velope from the War Office. He showed it to all 
 his friends, old and young. Duff junior — Caesar's 
 fag — ^became so excited that he asked Warde for per- 
 mission to enlist — as a drummer-boy I The School 
 cheered Caesar at four Bill. 
 
 And then came the parting. 
 
 Caesar was to join the Headquarters' Staff as soon 
 as possible. He spent the last hours with John, but 
 his mind, naturally enough, was concentrated upon 
 his kit. He chattered endlessly of saddlery, re- 
 volvers, sleeping bags, and Zeiss' glasses. John 
 packed his portmanteau. And on the morrow the 
 friends parted at the station without a word be- 
 yond — 
 
 " Good-bye, old Jonathan. Wish you were 
 coming." 
 
 " Good-bye, Cassar. Good luckl " 
 
 And then the shrill whistle, the inexorable rolling 
 of the wheels, the bright eager face leaning far out 
 of the window, the waved handkerchief, the last 
 words: " So long! " and John's reply, " So long! " 
 
 John saw the face fade; the wheels of the vanish- 
 ing train seemed to have rolled over his heart; the 
 scream of the engine was the scream of anguish from 
 himself. He left the station and ran to the Tower. 
 There, after the first indescribable moments, some 
 kindly spirit touched him. He became whole. But 
 he had ceased to be a boy. Alone upon the tower he 
 
GOOD NIGHT 311^ 
 
 prayed for his friend, prayed fervently that it might 
 be well with him, now and for ever — Amen. 
 
 When he returned to the Manor, however, peace 
 seemed to forsake him. The horrible gap, ever- 
 widening, between himself and Desmond, might in- 
 deed be bridged by prayer, but not by the shouts of 
 boys and the turmoil of a Public School. 
 
 During the rest of the term he worked furiously. 
 Desmond was now on the high seas, whither John 
 followed him at night and on Sundays. Warde, 
 guessing, perhaps, what was passing in John's heart, 
 talked much of Desmond, always hopefully. From 
 Warde, John learned that Charles Desmond had 
 tried to dissuade his favourite son from becoming a 
 soldier. 
 
 " He wanted him to go into Parliament," said 
 Warde. 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 " It was a disappointment. Harry would have 
 made a debater. Yes; yes! a nimble wit, an engag- 
 ing manner, and the gift of the gab. And the father 
 would have had him under his own eye." 
 
 " But he wanted to go to South Africa from the 
 beginning." 
 
 "You wanted to go," said Warde; "your uncle 
 told me so. It was a greater thing for you, John, 
 to stand aside." 
 
 And then John put a question. " Do you think 
 that Harry ought to have stood aside too ? " 
 
 Warde, however, unwilling to commit himself, 
 spoke of Harry's ardour and patriotism. But at the 
 
312 THE HILL 
 
 end he let fall a straw which indicated the true cur- 
 rent of his thoughts — 
 
 " Mr. Desmond is very lonely." 
 
 John swooped on this. 
 
 " Then you think, you do think, that Harry 
 should have stayed behind? " 
 
 " Perhaps. One hesitates to accuse the boy of 
 anything more than thoughtlessness." 
 
 " If he wished to serve his country," began John, 
 warmly. 
 
 Warde smiled. " Yes, yes," he assented. " Let 
 us believe that, John; but there has been too much 
 cheap excitement." 
 
 Dark days followed. Who will ever forget 
 Stormberg and Magersfontein? A pall seemed to 
 hang over the kingdom. Ladysmith remained in the 
 grip of the invader; the Boers were not yet driven 
 out of Natal. Meantime Caesar had reached Sir 
 Redvers Buller. A letter to his father, describing 
 the few incidents of the voyage out, and his arrival 
 in South Africa, was sent on to John and received 
 by him on the ist of February. " John will under- 
 stand," said Caesar, in a postscript, " that I have lit- 
 tle time for writing." But John did not understand. 
 He wrote regularly to Desmond; no answer came 
 in return. 
 
 At the end of the Christmas holidays John re- 
 turned to Harrow. He was now Head of his House, 
 and very nearly Head of the School. The weeks 
 went by slowly. Soon, he and a few others would 
 
GOOD NIGHT 313 
 
 vavol iu -Ctecford for their examination; there would 
 be the strenuous excitement of competition, and the 
 final announcement of success or failure. To all this 
 John told himself that he was lukewarm. Nothing 
 seemed to matter since he had lost sight of Cssar's 
 face, since the train whirled his friend out of his life. 
 But he worked hard, so hard that the Head Master 
 bade him beware of a breakdown. 
 
 The hour of triumph came. John had gratified 
 his own and Warde's ambition ; he was a Scholar of 
 Christ Church. And this well-earned success seemed 
 to thaw somethhg in his heart. The congratula- 
 tions, the warm hand-clasps, the generous joy of 
 schoolfellows not as fortunate, restored his moral 
 circulation. A whole holiday was granted in honour 
 of his success at Oxford. He told himself that now 
 he would take things easy and enjoy himself. The 
 clouds in South Africa were lifting, everybody said 
 the glorious end was in «ght. And so far Desmond 
 had escaped wounds and sickness. He had received 
 a commission in Beauregard's Irregular Horse; in 
 the five days' action about Spion Kop he behaved 
 with conspicuous gallantry. Scaife, having obtained 
 his billet of Galloper, was with a General under Lord 
 Methuen. 
 
 On the last Monday but one iin the term, John was 
 entering the Manor just before lock-up, when a Sixth 
 Form boy from another house passed him, running. 
 
 " Have you heard about poor Scaife? " he called 
 out. 
 
314 THE HILL 
 
 " No— what? " 
 
 " Warde will tell you ; he knows." The boy ran 
 on, not wishing to be late. 
 
 John ran too with his heart thumping against his 
 side. He felt certain, from the expression upon the 
 boy's face, that Scaife was dead. And John recalled 
 with intense bitterness and humiliation moments in 
 past years when he had wished that Scaife would die. 
 Charles Desmond had told him only three weeks be- 
 fore that his Harry hoped to join the smart cavalry 
 regiment in which a commission had been promised 
 to Scaife. At that moment John was sensible of an 
 inordinate desire for anything that might come be- 
 tween this wish and its fulfilment. And now, Scaife 
 might be lying dead. 
 
 He found Warde in his study staring at a tele- 
 gram. He looked up as John entered, and in silence 
 handed him the message. 
 
 "Demon dead. Died gloriously." 
 
 The telegram came from an old Manorite at the 
 War Office. 
 
 John sat down, stunned by the news; Warde re- 
 garded him gravely. John met his glance and could 
 not interpret it. Presently, Warde said nervously — 
 
 "Why did the fellow write ' Demon ' instead of 
 'Scaife'? I don't like that." He looked sharply 
 at John, who did not understand. Then he added, 
 " I've wired for confirmation. There may be a— 
 mistake," 
 
GOOD NIGHT 315 
 
 " What mistake ? " said John. Warde's manner 
 confused him, frightened him. " What mistake, 
 sir? " 
 
 Warde, twisting the paper, answered miserably — 
 
 " There has been an action, but not in Scaife's part 
 of Africa. Beauregard's Horse were engaged and 
 suffered severely. And would any one say ' Demon ' 
 in such a serious context?" 
 
 " Oh, my God! " said John, pale and trembling. 
 At last he understood. Add two letters to 
 " Demon " and you have " Desmond." How easily 
 such a mistake could be made ! — " Desmond," ill- 
 written, handed to an old Manorite to copy and 
 despatch. 
 
 " It's Scaife — it's Scaife," John cried. 
 
 Warde said nothing, staring at the thin slip of 
 paper as if he were trying to wrest from it its secret. 
 
 " Everybody called him ' Demon,' " said John. 
 
 " Still, one ought to be prepared." 
 
 For many hideous minutes they sat there, silent, 
 waiting for the second telegram. Dumbleton 
 brought it in, and lingered, anxiously expectant; but 
 Warde dismissed him with a gesture. As the door 
 closed, Warde stood up. 
 
 " If our fears are well founded," he said solemnly, 
 " may God give you strength, John Verney, to bear 
 the blow." 
 
 Then he tore open the envelope and read the 
 truth — 
 
 "Henry Desmond killed in action." 
 
3i6 THE HILL 
 
 "No," said John, fiercely. "It is Scalfe, 
 Scaife!" 
 
 Warde shook his head, holding John's hand tight 
 between his sinewy fingers. John's face appalled 
 him. He had known, he had guessed, the strength 
 of John's feeling for Desmond, but he had not 
 known the strength of John's hatred of Scaife. And 
 Desmond had been taken — and Scaife left. The 
 irony of it tore the soul. 
 
 " Don't speak ! " commanded Warde. 
 
 John closed his lips with instinctive obedience. 
 When he opened them again his face had softened; 
 the words fell upon the silence with a heartrending 
 inflection of misery. 
 
 " And now I shall never know — I shall never 
 know." 
 
 He broke down piteously. Warde let the first 
 passion of grief spend itself; then he asked John to 
 explain. The good fellow saw that if John could 
 give his trouble words it would be lightened enor- 
 mously. He divined what had been suppressed, 
 
 " What is it that you will never know, John? " 
 
 At that John spoke, laying bare his heart. He 
 gave details of the never-ending struggle between 
 Scaife and himself for the soul of his friend; gave 
 them with a clearness of expression which proved be- 
 yond all else how his thoughts had crystallized in his 
 mind. Warde listened, holding John's hand, grip- 
 ping it with sympathy and affection. The romance 
 of this friendship stirred him profoundly; the ro- 
 mance of the struggle for good and evil; a struggle 
 
GOOD NIGHT 317] 
 
 of whicK the issues remained still in doubt; a 
 romance which Death had cruelly left unfinished — 
 this had poignant significance for the house-master. 
 
 " I shall never know now," John repeated, in con- 
 clusion. 
 
 " But you have faith in your friend." 
 
 " He never wrote to me," said John. 
 
 At last it was out, the thorn in his side which had 
 tormented him. 
 
 " If he had written," John continued, " if only he 
 had written once. When we parted it was good-bye 
 — ^just that, nothing more; but I thought he would 
 write, and that everything would be cleared up. 
 And now, silence." 
 
 The week wore itself away. A few details were 
 forthcoming: enough to prove that a glorious deed 
 had been done at the cost of a gallant life. England 
 was thrilled because the hero happened to be the son 
 of a popular Minister. The name of Desmond rang 
 through the Empire. John bought every paper and 
 devoured the meagre lines which left so much be- 
 tween them. It seemed that a certain position had 
 to be taken — a small hill. For the hundredth time 
 in this campaign too few men were detailed for the 
 task. The reek of that awful slaughter on Spion 
 Kop was still strong in men's nostrils. Beauregard 
 and his soldiers halted at the foot of the hill, halted 
 in the teeth of a storm of bullets. Then the word 
 was given to attack. But the fire from invisible foes 
 simply exterminated the leading files. The moment 
 
3i8 THE HILL 
 
 came when those behind wavered and recoiled. And 
 then Desmond darted forward — alone, cheering on 
 his fellows. They were all afoot. The men rallied 
 and followed. But they could not overtake the gal- 
 lant figure pressing on in front. He ran — so the 
 Special Correspondent reported — as if he were rac- 
 ing for a goal.' The men rushed after him, 
 aflame with his ardour. They reached the top, cap- 
 tured the guns, drove down the enemy, and returned 
 to the highest point to find their leader — shot 
 through the heart, and dead, and smiling at death! 
 Of all the men who passed through that blizzard of 
 bullets he was the youngest by two years. 
 
 Warde told John that the Head Master would 
 preach upon the last Sunday evening of the term, 
 with special reference to Harry Desmond. Could 
 John bear it? John nodded. Since the first break- 
 down in Warde's study, his heart seemed to have 
 turned to ice. His religious sense, hitherto strong 
 and vital, failed him entirely. He abandoned prayer. 
 
 Evensong was over in Harrow Chapel. The 
 Head Master, stately in surplice and scarlet hood, 
 entered the pulpit, and, in his clear, calm tones, an- 
 nounced his text, taken from the 17th verse of the 
 first Chapter of the Book of Ruth — 
 
 " The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught 
 but death part thee and me." 
 
 The subject of the sermon was "Friendship": 
 
GOOD NIGHT 319 
 
 the heart's blood of a Public School: Friendship with 
 its delights, its perils, its peculiar graces and bene- 
 dictions. 
 
 " To-night," concluded the preacher, amid the 
 breathless silence of the congregation, " this thought 
 of Friendship has for us a special solemnity. It is 
 consecrated by the memory of one whom we have 
 just lost. You, who are leaving the school, have been 
 the friends and contemporaries of Henry Julius Des- 
 mond; his features are fresh in your memories, and 
 will remain fresh as long as you live. 
 
 " Tall, eager, a face to remember, 
 
 A flush that could change as the day; 
 A spirit that knew not December, 
 That brightened the sunshine of May. 
 
 " Those lines, as you know, were written of an- 
 other Harrovian, who died here on this Hill. Henry 
 Desmond died on another hill, and died so gloriously 
 that the shadow of our loss, dark as it seemed to us 
 at first, is already melting in the radiance of his 
 gain. To die young, clean, ardent ; to die swiftly, in 
 perfect health; to die saving others from death, or 
 worse — disgrace — to die scaling heights; to die and 
 to carry with you into the fuller ampler life beyond, 
 untainted hopes and aspirations, unemblttered mem- 
 ories, all the freshness and gladness of May — is not 
 that cause for joy rather than sorrow? I say — yes. 
 Henry Desmond is one stage beyond us upon a jour- 
 ney which we all must take, and I entreat you to con- 
 
320 THE HILL 
 
 sider that, if we have faith in a future life, we must 
 believe also that we carry hence not only the record 
 of our acts, whether good or evil, but the memory of 
 them ; and that memory, undimmed by falsehood or 
 self-deception, will create for us Heaven or Hell. 
 I do not say to you — God forbid! — that you should 
 desire death because you are still young, and, com- 
 paratively speaking, unspotted from the world; but 
 I do affirm most emphatically that I would sooner see 
 any of you struck down in the flower of his youth 
 than living on to lose, long before death comes, all 
 that makes life worth the living. Better death, a 
 thousand times, than gradual decay of mind and 
 spirit; better death than faithlessness, indifference, 
 and uncleanness. To you who are leaving Harrow, 
 poised for flight into the great world of which this 
 school is the microcosm, I commend the memory of 
 Henry Desmond. It stands in our records for all we 
 venerate and strive for: loyalty, honour, purity, 
 strenuousness, and faithfulness in friendship. When 
 temptation assails you, think of that gallant boy run- 
 ning swiftly uphill, leaving craven fear behind, 
 and drawing with him the others who, led by him 
 to the heights, made victory possible. You cannot 
 all be leaders, but you can follow leaders; only 
 see to it that they lead you, as Henry Desmond 
 led the men of Beauregard's Horse, onward and 
 upward." 
 
 The preacher ended, and then followed the fa- 
 miliar hymn, always sung upon the last Sunday 
 evening of the term : — 
 
GOOD NIGHT 321 
 
 "Let Thy father-hand be shielding 
 
 All who here shall meet no more; 
 May their seed-time past be yielding 
 Year by year a richer store ; 
 
 Those returning, 
 Make more faithful than before." 
 
 The last blessing was pronounced, and with glis- 
 tening eyes the boys streamed out of Chapel; some 
 of them for the last time. 
 
 Upon the next Tuesday, John travelled down into 
 the New Forest. April was abroad in Hampshire ; 
 the larches already were bright green against the 
 Scotch firs; the beech buds were bursting; only the 
 oaks retained their drab winter's livery. 
 
 During the few days preceding Easter Sunday, 
 John rode or walked to every part of the forest 
 which he had visited in company with his dead 
 friend. At Beaulieu, standing in the ruins of t^^ 
 Abbey, he could hear Desmond's delightful laugh as 
 he recited the misadventures of Hordle John; at 
 Stoneycross he sat upon the bank overlooking the 
 moor, whence they had seen the fox steal into the 
 woods about Rufus's Stone; at the Bell tavern at 
 Brook they had lunched; at Hinton Admiral they 
 had played cricket. 
 
 To his mother's and his uncle's silent sympathy 
 John responded but churlishly. His friend had de- 
 parted without a word, without a sign ; that ate into 
 John's heart and consumed it. For the first time 
 since he had been confirmed, he refused to receive 
 the Sacrament. He went to church as a matter of 
 
322 THE HILE 
 
 form; but he dared not approach the altar in his 
 present rebellious mood. 
 
 Again and again he accused himself of having 
 yielded to a craven fear of offending Desmond by 
 speech too plain. Always he had been so terribly 
 afraid of losing his friend ; and now he had lost him 
 indeed. This poignancy of grief may be accounted 
 for In part by the previous long-continued strain 
 of overwork. And It is ever the habit of those 
 who do much to think that they might have done 
 more. 
 
 At the beginning of May, John came back to the 
 Hill, for his last term. Out of the future rose the 
 " dreaming spires " of Oxford; beyond them, vague 
 and shadowy, the great Clock-tower of Westminster, 
 keeping watch and ward over the destinies of our 
 Empire. 
 
 In a long letter from Charles Desmond, the Min- 
 ister had spoken of the secretaryship to be kept 
 warm for him, of the pleasure and solace the writer 
 would take in seeing his son's best friend in the 
 place where that son might have stood. 
 
 His best friend? Was that true? 
 
 The question tormented John. Because Caesar 
 had been so much to him, he desired, more pas- 
 sionately than he had desired anything In his life, the 
 assurance that he had been something — ^not every- 
 thing, only something — to Cssar. 
 
 One day, about the middle of the month, John 
 had been playing cricket, the game of all games 
 
GOOD NIGHT 323 
 
 which brought Caesar most vividly to his mind. 
 Then, just before six Bill, he strolled up the Hill and 
 into the Vaughan Library, where so many relics dear 
 to Harrovians are enshrined. Sitting In the splendid 
 window which faces distant Hampstead, John told 
 himself that he must put aside the misery and per- 
 plexities of the past month. Had he been loyal to 
 his friend? Would not a more ardent faith have 
 burned away doubt? 
 
 John gazed across the familiar fields to the huge 
 city on the horizon. Soon night would fall, darkness 
 would encompass all things. And then, out of the 
 mirk, would shine the lamps of London. 
 
 Warde's voice put his thoughts to instant flight. 
 Some intuition told John that something had hap- 
 pened. Warde said quietly — 
 
 " A letter has come for you In Harry Desmond's 
 handwriting." 
 
 John, unable to speak, stretched out his hand. 
 
 " Take it," said Warde, " to some quiet spot 
 where you cannot be disturbed." 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 " I have seen how it was with you," Warde con- 
 tinued, with deep emotion, " and you have had my 
 acute sympathy, the more acute, perhaps, because 
 long ago a friend went out of my life without a 
 sign." Warde paused. " Now, unless my whole ex- 
 perience is at fault, you hold In your hand what you 
 want — and what you deserve." 
 
 Warde left the library; John put the letter Into 
 his pocket. Where should he go? One place beck- 
 
324 THE HILC 
 
 oned him. Upon the tower, looking towards the 
 Hill, he would read the letter of his friend. 
 
 Within half an hour he was passing through the 
 iron gates. He had not visited the garden since that 
 forlorn winter's afternoon, when he came here, alone, 
 after bidding Desmond good-bye. He could recall 
 the desolation of the scene: bleak Winter dripping 
 tears upon the tomb of Summer. With what dis- 
 gust he had perceived the decaying masses of vege- 
 tation, the sodden turf, the soot upon the bare trunks 
 of the trees. He had rushed away, fancying that he 
 heard Desmond's voice, " There is a curse on the 
 place." 
 
 Now, May had touched what had seemed dead 
 and hideous, and, lo! a miracle. The hawthorns 
 shone white against the brilliant green of the laurels ; 
 the horse-chestnuts had — to use a fanciful expression 
 of Cffisar's — " lit their lamps." Out of the waving 
 grass glimmered and sparkled a thousand wild 
 flowers. John heard the glad Friihlingslied of bees 
 and birds. Then, opening his lungs, he inhaled the 
 life-renewing odours of earth renascent; opening his 
 heart he felt a spiritual essence pervading every fibre 
 of his being. Once more the chilled sap in his veins 
 flowed generously. It was well with him and well 
 with his friend. This conviction possessed him, re- 
 member, before he opened the letter. 
 
 He ascended the tower, and broke the seal. 
 
 " I have been meaning to write to you, dear old 
 chap, ever since we parted; but, somehoW; I couldn't 
 
GOOD NIGHT 325 
 
 bring myself to tackle it in earnest till to-night. To- 
 morrow, we have a thundering big job ahead of us; 
 the last job, perhaps, for me. Old Jonathan, you 
 have been the best friend a man ever had, the only 
 one I love as much as my own brothers — and even 
 more! It was from knowing you that I came to 
 see what good-for-nothing fools some fellows are. 
 You were always so unselfish and straight; and you 
 made me feel that I was the contrary, and that you 
 knew it, and that I should lose your friendship if I 
 didn't improve a bit. So, if we don't meet again in 
 this jolly old world, it may be a little comfort to 
 you to remember that what you have done for a very 
 worthless pal was not thrown away. 
 
 "Good night, Jonathan. I'm going to turn in; 
 we shall be astir before daybreak. Over the veldt 
 the stars are shining. It's so light, that I can just 
 make out the hill upon which, I hope, our flag will 
 be waving within a few hours. The sight of this 
 hill brings back our Hill. If I shut my eyes, I can 
 see it plainly, as we used to see it from the tower, 
 with the Spire rising out of the heart of the old 
 school. I have the absurd conviction strong in me 
 that, to-morrow, I shall get up the hill here faster 
 and easier than the other fellows because you and I 
 have so often run up our Hill together — God bless 
 it — and you I Good night." 
 
 THE ENB.