Part 10 (2/2)

Ferguson cursed inwardly. This would mean at least half-an-hour wasted; and he could so easily have found another pair. The School House changing-room is a n.o.ble affair. It is about seventy feet long and sixty wide. All round it run small part.i.tioned-off benches; in the middle are stands for corps clothes. At one end there is what was once a piano.

Laboriously the Chief and Ferguson hunted round the room. In the far corner there was an airing cupboard. It was a great sight to see Ferguson climb up on the top of this. He was not a gymnast, and he took some time doing it. Hunter sat changing at one end of the room, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Down the pa.s.sage a loud, tuneless voice began to sing _Who were You with Last Night?_ and Mansell rolled in. He saw the Chief, and stopped suddenly, going over to Hunter.

”What does the old idiot want?”

”He's hunting for Ferguson's tennis shoes.”

”Good Lord! and I've got them on.”

”Well, get them off, then, quick.”

In a second, while the Chief was looking the other way, Mansell stole across to the middle of the room and laid them on the top of the hot-water pipes.

About two minutes later Ferguson burst out:

”Look, sir, here they are!”

”But, my dear Ferguson, I'm sure we must have looked there.”

”Yes, sir. I thought we had.”

”Er, 't any rate there are your shoes, Ferguson, and I hope you'll have a good game!” The Chief went out, rather annoyed at having wasted so much time. At tea that evening there was mirth at the V. B table.

On this occasion trouble was avoided. But one day Willing, a new boy, lost his corps hat. He was certain it had been there before lunch. The Corps Parade was already falling in. Seeing no other hat to fit him, he very idiotically went on without a hat at all. It would have been far better to have cut parade altogether. Clarke asked him where his hat was, but his ideas on the subject were very nebulous. The whole corps was kept waiting while School House hats were examined. Ten people had got hats other than their own.

They each got a Georgic....

The pent-up fury of the House now broke loose. Everyone swore he would murder Clarke on the last day, bag his clothes, and hold him in a cold bath for half-an-hour. If half of the things that were going to be done on the last day ever happened, how very few heads of houses would live to tell the tale! It is so easy to talk, so very hard to do anything; a head of the House is absolutely supreme. If he is at all sensitive, it is possible to make his life utterly wretched by a silent demonstration of hatred, but if he is at all a man, threats can never mature, and Clarke was a man. During his last days at Fernhurst he was supremely miserable. The House was split up into factions: he himself had no one to talk to except Ferguson and Sandham. But he carried on the grim joke to its completion. In the last week he beat four boys for being low in form, and gave a whole dormitory a hundred lines daily till the end of the term for talking after lights out. The Chief was sorry to lose him; Ferguson would make a very weak head. The future was not too bright.

”I say, you know, I think I had better get a 'budge' this term.” Gordon announced this fact as the Lower Fifth were pretending to prepare for the exam. Mansell protested:

”Now don't be a d.a.m.ned a.s.s, my good man; you don't know when you are well off. You stop with old Methuselah a bit longer. He is a most d.a.m.nable a.s.s, but his form is a glorious slack.”

”Oh, well, I don't know. I think the Sixth is slacker still. I am going to specialise in something when I get there. I am not quite sure what.

But it's going to mean a lot of study hours.”

At Fernhurst there was a great scheme by which specialists always worked in their studies. To specialise was the dream of every School House boy.

It is so charming to watch, from the warm repose of your own study, black figures rus.h.i.+ng across the rain-swept courts on the way to their cla.s.s-rooms (it always rained at Fernhurst), and Gordon was essentially a hedonist.

”Yes, I suppose the higher you go up the less work you do,” said Mansell. ”When I was with old 'Bogus' I used to prepare my lessons sometimes, and, what's more, with a dictionary.”

”Oh, _Quantum mutatus ab illo_,” sighed Gordon.

”Yes, you know,” said Betteridge, ”the higher you get up the school the less you need worry about what you do. The prefect is supposed to be the model of what a Public School boy should be. And yet he is about the fastest fellow in the school. If I got caught in Davenham's study by the Chief, even if I said I was only borrowing a pencil, I should get in the deuce of a row. But Meredith can sit there all hall and say he's making inquiries about a boxing compet.i.tion. He's trusted. The lower forms aren't allowed to prepare in their studies. They might use a crib, so they have to work in the day-room or big school. The Fifth is trusted to work, so it can spend school hours in its studies. Of course the Third works the whole time, while the Fifth just writes the translation between the lines and then plays barge cricket. It's no use trusting a Public School boy. Put faith in him and he'll take advantage of it; and yet there are still some who say the Public School system is satisfactory!”

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