Part 40 (1/2)

As a whole the Easter term began far more satisfactorily than the Christmas term had ended.

There were no ”uppers.” House captains ran everything. Morgan had been promoted into the Lower Sixth, and Gordon found him a most entertaining person. Naturally clever and naturally indolent, Morgan's work presented a strange contrast. He and Gordon would settle down to prepare _OEdipus Tyrannus_ for Finnemore. They would begin lethargically.

After ten lines Morgan would ask whether they had done enough; Gordon would fling a book at his head; somehow or other they would slop through thirty lines. Then Morgan would shut his book, and refuse to do any more.

”Thirty lines is enough for Finnemore, and, besides, I feel rather slack to-night.”

Gordon did not take the trouble to point out that the same feeling of slackness overcame him every night.

They would both pull up their chairs in front of the fire, and waste the rest of hall talking. The next morning, however, Gordon would discover that the lines they had prepared the night before conveyed no meaning to him at all. He would curse Morgan, and then go up to the library, rout out Jebbs' translation, and prepare the Greek. Then he would move across to school with the contented feeling of work well done.

Morgan would be put on to con. Gordon would wait, laughing to himself.

He was sure Morgan would make an awful mess of things. But somehow or other Morgan always managed to translate it correctly, if not stylishly.

”Morgan, you did that again when I wasn't there,” Gordon would say afterwards.

”Oh no; we prepared it pretty well last night for a change.”

After a while Gordon got used to this apparent miracle; but he himself had invariably to consult the English authority. He did not tell Morgan that. The climax was reached when Finnemore, who liked Gordon and thought him rather clever, wrote in Morgan's report: ”He relies rather too much on Caruther's help for his Sophocles translation.” It was an interpretation that had occurred to neither.

CHAPTER IV: THE DAWN OF NOTHING

Slowly the Easter term moved on. As the days went by the sense of failure, which had overhung everything Gordon had done the term before, returned with an increased poignancy. The Thirds ended in a defeat which was rendered no more pleasant by the fact that it was inevitable. No one expected the House to win. The defeat was no reflection on Gordon's leaders.h.i.+p. The Chief, in fact, said to him: ”We were much too small a side, Caruthers, but I think we put up a plucky fight. You haven't anything to grumble at. We did much better than I expected.”

But Gordon was always too p.r.o.ne to judge by results. He contrasted the game with last year's triumphs, and with the glorious defeat of the year before, which had brought more honour than many victories. It was very different from what he had hoped for. There would not be much to remember his captaincy by.

One morning towards the middle of February he was glancing down the casualty list, when he saw Jeffries's name among those killed. He put the paper down, and walked very quietly across to his study. Jeffries was well out of it, perhaps; but still Gordon wished he could have seen him once more. That last terrible scene in Study 16 rose before his eyes. He could almost hear the bang of the Chief's door. And now Jeffries was dead; and no one would care. A master, perhaps, might notice his name and say: ”Just as well; he would have made a mess of his life.” They had never known Jeffries.

”You look rather upset this morning,” murmured Morgan from a corner of the room. Gordon had not noticed him.

”I am rather; a chap who had a study with me ... Jeffries ... he is in the casualty list this morning.”

”A.R. Jeffries?”

”Yes. But you didn't know him, did you?”

”Oh no; but I saw his photo in a winning Thirds group.”

”Yes, that would be him. He was a fine forward.”

Gordon was glad to think that that was what his friend was remembered for. Only the good remained. It was as Jeffries would have wished....

The Two c.o.c.k drew near. There had been a good chance of winning once, but influenza had played havoc with the side. Gordon told them they were going to win, encouraged them, presented a smiling face, but his heart was heavy. He saw another cup going to join the silver regiment on the Buller's sideboard. He had never found life quite so hard before; only Morgan's unshatterable optimism, Ferrer's volcanic energy, and his own friends.h.i.+p for Morcombe made things bearable at all. And yet he had all the things he had once wanted. Now Betteridge had left, he was indisputably the big man in the House. Rudd was a broken reed. At last he began to see that the mere trappings of power might deceive the world, but not their wearer.

A week before the Two c.o.c.k Tester paid an unexpected week-end visit. He was full of vitality and exuberance. He was just the same, debonair, light-hearted, thoroughly happy. Everyone was pleased to see him; he was pleased to see everyone. He was almost hilarious. But as Gordon watched him carefully, his mirth seemed like that of Byron in _Don Juan_, laughter through his tears. The others did not notice, because they had never known Tester.

Just after prayers he met Tester on his way back from supper with the Chief.