Part 10 (1/2)

”Fletcher, did you see Caruther's paper?”

”No, sir.”

”Oh, you silly fellows. Then I shall have to put both your papers before the Headmaster. I'm afraid you will both be expelled.”

Jenks had a strange notion of the offences that merited expulsion. Every time he reported a boy he expected to see him marching sadly to the station to catch the afternoon train. Once Collins had stuck a pin into a wonderful mercury apparatus and entirely ruined it.

”Oh, Collins, you stupid boy. I shall have to report you to the Headmaster, and you know what that means. We sha'n't see you here any more.”

Gordon had, of course, not the slightest fear of getting ”bunked.” But still it was a nuisance. He would have to be more careful next time.

”Now look here, you two,” Jenks went on, after a bit. ”If either of you cares to own up, I won't report you at all. I will deal with you myself.”

Slowly Gordon rose. It was obviously an occasion where it paid to own up.

”I did, sir.”

”Oh I thought as much. You see yours was in pencil, and if possible a little worse than Fletcher's. Sit down.”

Betteridge afterwards said that to watch Jenks rus.h.i.+ng across the courts to see the Chief during the minute interval between the exit of one cla.s.s and the arrival of the next was better than any pantomime. He was very small; he had a large white moustache; his gown was too long; it blew out like sails in the wind. Besides, it was the first time Jenks had ever been seen to run.

In due time Caruthers and Fletcher appeared before the Chief. The result was only a long ”jaw” and a bad report. The Chief could not perhaps be expected to see that a lie was any the less a lie because it was told to a master. But in the delinquents any feeling of penitence there might have been was entirely obscured by an utter scorn of Jenks.

”After all, the man did say he wouldn't report us,” said Fletcher.

”Oh, it's all you can expect from these 'stinks men.' They have no sense of honour.”

It did not occur to Gordon that in this instance his own sense of honour had not been tremendously in evidence. The Public School system had set its mark on him.

The other incident was the great clothes row. All rows spring from the most futile sources. This one began with the sickness of one Evans-Smith, who was suddenly taken ill in form. It was a hot day, and he fainted. Now Evans-Smith was an absolute nonent.i.ty. It was only his second term, but he had already learnt that anything that was in the changing-room was common property; and so when the matron took off his shoes before putting him to bed she saw Rudd's name inside. The matter was reported to the Chief. The Chief made a tour of the changing-room during afternoon school, and his eyes were opened. For instance, it was quite obvious that Turner had changed. His school suit was hung on his peg, his blazer was presumably on him, and yet his cricket trousers were lying on the floor, with Fischer's house scarf sticking out of the pocket. There were many other like discoveries.

In hall that night the Chief asked Turner whose trousers he was wearing that afternoon. The wretched youth had not the slightest idea; all he knew was that they were not his own. He thought they might be Bradford's.

After prayers the Chief addressed the House on the subject. He pointed out how carelessness in little things led to carelessness in greater, and how dangerous it was to get into a habit of taking other people's things without thinking. He also said that it was most unhealthy to wear someone else's clothes. He was, of course, quite right; but the House could not see it, for the simple reason that it did not want to see it.

It would be an awful nuisance to have to look after one's own things.

Besides, probably the man next to you had a much newer sweater. The House intended to go on as before. And indeed it did.

One day Ferguson thought he wanted some exercise. It was a half-holiday, and Clarke was quite ready for a game of tennis. Ferguson went down to the changing-room. The first thing he saw was that his tennis shoes were gone. He thought it quite impossible that anyone should dare to bag his things. Fuming with wrath, he banged into the matron's room.

”I say, Matron, look here; my tennis shoes are gone.”

And then, suddenly, he saw the Chief standing at the other end of the room, glancing down the dormitory list.

”Oh, really, Ferguson, I must see about this. Matron, do you know anything about Ferguson's shoes?”

”No, sir! Never touch the boys' shoes. George is the only person who looks after them; and he only cleans _black_ boots and shoes.”

”Oh, well, then, Ferguson, you'd better come with me, and we will make a search for them.”