The Project Gutenberg eBook, Captains of Harley, by Hylton Cleaver, Illustrated by H. M. Brock

CAPTAINS OF HARLEY

SCHOOL STORIES BY

HYLTON CLEAVER

BROTHER O’ MINE:

A Story of Harley

THE HARLEY FIRST XI

ROSCOE MAKES GOOD

HUMPHREY MILFORD

“WHEN HE HIT THE BOARDS HE LAY STILL.”
[See p. [273].

CAPTAINS OF HARLEY
A SCHOOL STORY

BY

HYLTON CLEAVER

AUTHOR OF “BROTHER O’ MINE,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

H. M. BROCK

HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW

TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPETOWN BOMBAY

1921

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
THE BOY IN THE CORNER

A wiry, grave-faced youngster sat in the corner of the railway carriage watching a stupid parent saying good-bye to a stupid boy.

He was glad that nobody had come to see him off, for he had now the satisfaction of knowing that his own father was a father more worth having than any other he had seen yet. Also he could look upon the pitiable scene now being enacted before him from the standpoint of one who at least could be trusted to get into the right carriage without leaping out by the other door to see if it were really labelled “Harley” on both sides. This fat boy had done that, and afterwards he had sat down very heavily on a packet of sandwiches and was unaware of it. The boy in the corner wondered if they would be sticking to him when he stood up. As for the parent of the fat boy, he stood outside looking nervously towards the engine, and his raincoat, which was unbuttoned, blew this way and that in the breeze; once it had somewhat foolishly knocked some buns off a push-cart. He wore a hat poised far forward over his nose, and he had flat feet.

Whilst the boy in the corner sat watching with thoughtful eyes, the man broke suddenly into a rapid clog dance and beckoned to his son. Above the rat-a-tat of his feet upon the platform could be heard his voice plaintively upraised:

“Arthur! Arthur! Come here! Jump out as quickly as you possibly can. I have something to say to you.”

Arthur took just one glad leap into the open, landing upon his father’s foot. Then, clapping his ear against his father’s lips, he listened with a coy interest to his urgent whispers, until he was suddenly gripped by the elbow and spun upon his heel.

“Get in at once, my boy, get in at once!” his parent was commanding. “At once, I say. The train is about to go. Get in quickly ... quickly.”

Arthur fell in head-first, and arrived limply half on the seat and half on the floor. Then he slowly clawed his way on to the cushions and subsided. But now once again there sounded that terrible parent’s staccato voice. The unhappy boy was hooked by the arm with an umbrella.

“It is not going yet after all,” he was told. “Come out again. Come out for a moment. I have something to say to you.”

The wiry boy in the corner began to feel sorry for Arthur: he was perspiring so very freely. However, there followed confidence after confidence until, finally and for the last time, the father threw his son bodily into the carriage like a sack of potatoes.

The blast of a whistle had reached his expectant ears.

“Get in! Get in!” he was crying. “For goodness’ sake do get in! What a foolish boy you are. You will certainly miss the train. Be sure to write. Good-bye ... good-bye ... good-bye!”

Then the train was really moving out of the station at last. Numberless boys in Harley caps were scrambling into carriages, and as the little man with the goatee beard gave one final wave of his glove to his departing son, two young men cannoned into him from behind, and his hat flew violently forwards and outwards, causing him to make a somewhat ludicrous exit from the boy in the corner’s field of view. Next the foremost of his assailants had sprung for the carriage door and they had tumbled in.

One of the two seemed a little embarrassed at the diversion they had caused, and sat down modestly in a corner. The other wiped his forehead, and then turned and beheld Arthur with both interest and delight.

The portly Arthur was sitting stiffly upright and staring at his ticket with wide protuberant eyes, the while he trembled like unto one smitten with ague. He looked up at the boy in the corner and gaped. He tried to speak. Words failed him. At last a low moan escaped his lips.

“My ticket! My ticket! Father has taken it away with him and he—” he paused and collected himself for a bellow of despair—“he has given me his own return ticket to Ealing!”

The boy in the corner looked at him as if one might have expected something like this would have occurred after all that palaver, and the brief silence that followed his sensational news was only broken by a peculiar grunt that would not be stifled. Then up spoke one of the late arrivals. Both were evidently boys of some seniority and wore bowler hats. The one who spoke now had a lean and humorous countenance lit by strangely bright eyes.

“Nick,” said he to his companion, “look out of the window. Do you see anyone coming?”

The young gentleman addressed as Nick was beaming thoughtfully as if to himself, and he did not at once obey.

“I will look myself,” said the other, rising impatiently and leaning far out. “Yes, I can see a cloud of dust. Right in the middle of it there is the figure of a man bounding along the road at such a break-neck speed that his feet are scarcely touching the ground at all. It appears,” he added, turning to Arthur, “to be your sportsmanlike father.” He coughed. “His chances of catching us are somewhat small, of course. The train is now going at full speed. Your father is certainly making a very fine effort indeed ... his movements are not unlike those of a good-class cat ... but he will, I fear, be outdistanced by the puff-puff. Your father——”

The fat boy could stand this no longer. He pushed his head fiercely out of the window under the other’s arm.

“Where?” he demanded. “Where’s my father?” He looked harder still. “Why,” said he, “we’re only just out of the station. There’s no cloud of dust at all.”

“No,” confessed the other. “Now that I come to look with my other eye I must admit that I do not see it so clearly myself. Still there might have been. It is a pretty picture to conjure up—your father absolutely running himself to a standstill to get back his ticket to Ealing.”

After this there was silence for a little while. The bright-eyed youth resumed his seat and appeared to be thinking things over. He threw his bowler on to the rack and passed a hand thoughtfully over his hair.

At last he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and faced Arthur.

Then he inclined his head sideways towards his fair-haired comrade.

“That robust-looking fellow over there is known as Terence Nicholson,” said he, weighing his words. “He has been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven, and now he’s in the Rugger side, so be careful what you say. His brother’s called ‘Old Nick,’ and he’s a master at school. Very likely you’ll see him walking along the footboards on his hands if you look outside. My own name,” he paused, in order to give added emphasis to the noble word, “is Rouse.”

He did not care to introduce himself as the probable captain of Rugby football during the coming term, for Rouse was not conceited about the things that he could do. Oddly enough he was only conceited about the things that he could not.

“A beak called Mould,” he announced, “once told me when I was construing Latin that I had a very inventive brain.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “He was entirely correct. You see in me a man who thinks for exercise rather than for profit, and it will comfort you to know that I have already devised a way of escape for you in your astounding dilemma. I ask myself: ‘Now how is this poor misguided creature ever going to pass through the iron barriers of Harley with only a silly little ticket to Ealing in his hand?’ And the answer is this: ‘I will ask him to give that ticket to me.’”

The fat boy reached out a trembling hand and gave over his ticket somewhat fearfully.

Rouse took it and solemnly tore it into a hundred pieces. The fat boy screamed.

“Oh, you’ve spoilt it!”

“Certainly,” admitted Rouse, “it is a trifle bent. But why? Because now nobody knows whether it is a ticket to Harley or the Federated Malay States. Will they, however, suppose that you would be such an ass as to buy a ticket to Ealing when you intended proceeding to Harley? I think not. You have to give up your ticket at the other end, and you’ll give it up, that’s all. It will be in pieces, but there’s no law against that. The warden at the gate will say: ‘Hi, here you! What’s this?’ and you’ll say: ‘That, sir, is my ticket,’ and you’ll pour it generously into his open hands. He’ll never know. He’ll think it’s a practical joke, scowl at you, and pass you through with the toe of his boot.”

There was an awed silence. Rouse was well satisfied with the effect of his words. Suddenly however there spoke up Terence Nicholson from his corner. It was the first time that he had been able to get a word in and he spoke modestly.

“Yes,” said he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.”

There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head regretfully.

“There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.”

And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness.

At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading:

“Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a suggestion, my lad.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the truth.”

Rouse cleared his throat.

“Well, I think you may be right. It’ll be difficult for anyone to believe that poor boy capable of practising deceit. In fact one may say that he looks strongly like a boy who could be depended upon to forget his ticket.”

The train came suddenly into daylight again and Rouse stopped abruptly.

The fat boy was weeping.

Rouse stared at him for a moment, then looked askance at Terence, and finally he turned a sternly prefectorial eye upon the boy in the corner who had hitherto somewhat escaped his notice. The boy looked back at him a little uncertainly with a half smile. He was not at all sure whether it was good form to laugh at a boy who was crying. Rouse gave him no hint. He just looked: and presently the other blinked at him apologetically. Actually Rouse was deciding, as he afterwards told Terence, what a peculiarly good-looking kid he was.

“What’s your name?” said he at last.

“Carr,” said the boy in the corner.

“And which house are you going to?”

“Mr Morley’s, I think.”

“Over that house,” said Rouse, “I weave my spell. Also Friend Nicholson there. We were in that house when an arch-idiot named Mould ruled over our form, and at one time I must confess we appeared to be sinking. Yet, as we came up for the third time, so to speak, he was removed, and we survived. You’ll find Morley all right.” He turned to Arthur a little awkwardly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” said he courteously, “but to which house are you being admitted?”

The fat boy did not raise his head. He simply continued to weep, and at last there broke from his lips these sad words: “I want my t-t-ticket.”

Rouse fumbled in his pocket and at last produced a small piece of chalk.

“Here you are,” said he. “Draw yourself one on the wall.”

From that time onward the conversation was maintained solely by the expectant captain of Rugby football. Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, but he had a great deal. Terence Nicholson sat in his corner with the reminiscent smile of the man one may notice in the stalls of any theatre—the man who has seen the show twice before but who is enjoying it all none the less for that.

Bobbie Carr listened with deep and genuine interest, but he said nothing. He was too hypnotised. His large eyes followed Rouse’s every movement and never wavered.

Arthur merely swayed backwards and forwards in his seat, and sometimes when the train stopped with a jerk he was jolted forward on to the knees of the boy in the corner, over whom he hung with sagging head; then when the train started again was bumped back so that he cracked his skull against the wall of the compartment, but he seemed not to care.

At last they reached Harley.

As soon as they had alighted the large figure of a man suddenly appeared from nowhere and loomed over them. The man was dressed exceedingly well and exceedingly comfortably in Harris tweeds. He wore a soft hat and a club tie, and his large feet were enclosed in large brogue shoes. Even his pipe was large. His hand reached out and rested upon Terence’s shoulder. Finally he looked at Rouse.

“As for you,” said he, “it’s no use you saying you’re not there, because I can see your ears flapping behind that grin.”

The gentleman addressed endeavoured to keep a straight face, whilst from the near locality Arthur was to be heard lamenting his ill-fortune and crying aloud for advice.

For the last year or so Terence had been doing his best to overtake Toby in point of size, but he was still a trifle overshadowed by his brother’s large form, and he stood beside him modestly, as if pleased to claim a certain reflected glory. He could never see any reason for self-conceit in the fact that he had been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven and one year in the First Fifteen. The only thing he was really proud about was the fact that Toby was his brother.

“There’s rather bad news,” said Toby at last. “I’m afraid you’ll be very sorry.”

They looked at him inquiringly.

“The Grey Man has been very ill,” said he, puffing slowly at his pipe, “and he’s not coming back. We’ve got a new Head.”

The boy who had sat in the corner was standing hesitantly behind them, and he was amazed to find Rouse struck dumb. For Rouse just stood and looked first at Toby and then at Terence, and it was a long time before he spoke.

Terence asked quietly: “Who’s coming instead of him then?”

And Toby answered: “He’s a man called Roe. That’s all I can tell you.”

And then the pair of them seemed to consider the news with a fresh gravity, until at last Rouse shook his head sadly and said:

“I loved that man, you know.”

Coming from one who throughout the journey had seemed to be merely a rather superior sort of clown, this statement took Bobbie Carr by surprise. He stood there beside his bag, watching with wide eyes, waiting for more. But little more came. Rouse was a young man who could never make up his mind to grow up, and with the Grey Man he had never had to don any hypocritical cloak of stiff severity just because he was becoming one of the oldest boys at Harley, and he had got along very well indeed. Perhaps it was going to be different now. He picked up his bag and moved slowly away beside Terence, whilst Toby watched them go slowly and sadly along the platform towards the barrier, and as Bobbie followed after them he saw Rouse shake his head solemnly and heard him say:

“It’s a bad business. A bad business. Except for Toby, he was about the only master who’ll ever understand me, Terence, my lad.”

And when he knew them better Bobbie came to realise that it was only in moments of considerable gravity that Rouse ever called his friend by his proper Christian name.

At the barrier Rouse turned. He seemed suddenly to have remembered the fat boy. At last he observed him making his way flat-footedly and in extreme distress along the platform, and he beckoned.

Arthur increased his speed and came up alongside, breathing heavily and with his mouth open. Rouse looked at him gravely. All the heart seemed to have gone out of him. He drew the ticket-collector’s attention to the fat boy indifferently.

“This boy,” said he, “has come without his ticket. Will you chronicle the incident in your annals?”

The collector looked at him resentfully. In four years Rouse had never yet passed his barrier without saying something to him which he could not for the life of him understand.

“Will you,” continued Rouse, “record his history in your black book?”

The man turned patiently to the fat boy.

“You come without your ticket. How did you do that?”

“He found it easy,” observed Rouse in a hollow voice.

“What’s your name?”

Arthur trembled before the glare of the man in uniform, and stuttered out the simple answer: “Coppin.”

“What will he do?” he inquired of Rouse as soon as they were clear of the station.

“He will communicate with the Headmaster,” answered Rouse, “and you will never be allowed to travel by train again.”

And then he lapsed into silence. At last Terence turned to look at him, and Rouse glanced up and sighed.

“I shall miss the Grey Man,” said he. “The school won’t seem the same.”

CHAPTER II
THE GREAT GAME

Rouse was walking slowly from the school towards the playing fields. He was clad in a blazer surmounted by a wide school muffler, wound several times round his neck, and upon his head he wore a velvet cap heavily embroidered with brocade. Rouse was at peace with all the world. The wonderful thing had happened at last: he was captain of Rugby football at Harley. That it would come had been a foregone conclusion amongst those who knew. Rouse himself had been a little doubtful. For one thing he was not yet in the Sixth, and though he had certainly been made a prefect in spite of this fact the previous term, he knew that he was commonly regarded as a boy who could see nothing but the silly side of things. He had been sorry about this because, in spite of his extravagant sense of humour and his consistent lightheartedness, he could be serious enough over things that really mattered, and to him Rugger was one of the things that really did. Only his closest friends were permitted to understand this side of his character, for he was sensitive about it, but he found that just as it pays one man to seem a fool so it sometimes paid him to maintain a reputation for irresponsibility. Toby and Terence knew him best, and the Grey Man had grown to understand him; extraordinarily well too. These had known that if he were elected captain of football he would make good. Moreover the school had wanted him to be elected. He was easily the most popular player in the whole of Harley, and besides, he was the most senior of the old colours, which was always the main consideration in electing the new captain.

Well, they had elected him. It had been quite an uproarious meeting, too; there had been no end of enthusiasm. One small clique had certainly put up another man whom they claimed was of equal seniority in the Fifteen, but on hearing his name proposed the gentleman in question had instantly and somewhat confusedly refused to stand, loudly disclaiming any desire to skipper a team which could claim the leadership of a man like Rouse; and amidst loud and approving cheers he had seized the hand of Rouse and wrung it with the utmost enthusiasm; after which his friends had been at some pains to explain to their neighbours that they had only mentioned his name to let him know that he had not been entirely forgotten.

So Rouse had really achieved his great ambition.... It was hard not to chuckle. He progressed steadily towards the practice Rugger ground, singing gently to himself and picturing the season they were going to have. Secretly he longed to organise some great rag which should celebrate this event, for hitherto his life had been largely made up of rags. He realised now, however, that he would have to steady down. He had to train a team and lead them on the field, and he had to help Toby Nicholson teach small boys Rugger. That would take all his time, and for such employment it was worth while foregoing rags.

Presently he came within sight of the football ground that was his destination. Already a crowd was spreading along the touch-lines. He fingered the switch in his hand with affection. This switch had seen very good service, for it had been handed on from captain to captain from time immemorial. You may have thought that Rouse was about to play Rugby football. He was not. He was about to teach it. On the first day of each winter term at Harley (and also on other days throughout the season) two teams are selected to compete in a practice game, and they consist of small boys and idle boys and new boys. The excuse that some of these may not know Rugby football is of no account. They attend for instruction, and the remainder of the school line up with their waistcoats comfortably loosened in order that they may laugh the more heartily. The games master referees and the captain of football is armed with this switch, a cut from which is awarded, on the occasion of each scrum, to the last man into it, whilst whenever a three-quarter becomes possessed of the ball he is pursued up the field by this selfsame man, running rapidly and urging him with word and gesture and such occasional flicks of his switch as cause each boy, before the game is done, to feel himself possessed of a demon of speed and agility. There is also a cut for any boy who, in making a tackle, fails to go for his man at the knees. It may be noted that old Harleyans attribute the great success of the school at Rugby football very largely to the excellent effect produced by the captain’s switch in junior games; and one famous international has laid it down that in any big match in which he has broken through with the ball upon his chest he has invariably reached by instinct for that extra yard of speed which comes from the fear of a young man racing behind him with a switch, and has thanked his Alma Mater that he was taught to do so. Nor will you ever see an old Harleyan last into a scrum or tackling high. It is a good sign.

The crowd made way for Rouse admiringly, and a characteristic smile, which in a young boy would have looked more roguish than anything else, began to appear at the corners of his mouth. In a game like this Rouse was in his element. He looked thoughtfully round the players and finally glanced up and down the touch-lines as if in search of any who had evaded his clutch. There came a ripple of amusement. Some of those present recalled that on the occasion of the corresponding match last year those who laughed the most uproariously from the touch-line had been marked down by Toby Nicholson’s eagle eye during the game, and at half time had been called upon to perform themselves. It was possible that this would occur again, and throughout the world those who have once succumbed to any catch are the keenest layers of the trap for the next man.

At last the whistle blew. Next moment Rouse had skipped nimbly into the midst of things, encouraging all with loud cries, and the idea of the switch in Rouse’s exuberant hands caused a great and lasting enthusiasm amongst the players that was exceedingly stirring. Forwards fought for a place in the front row of the scrum, and many a youth who thought himself likely to be considered late might be heard loudly declaiming the fact that he had already packed down once, but finding himself the fourth man in the front row had been compelled to retire.

At last one line of three-quarters was fairly away with the ball, and Rouse went racing across from one to the other, whirling his arm to ensure that each man took his pass at top speed. Ultimately the wing received the ball, and being entirely new to the game clearly did not know what to do with it. For a moment he paused and looked round in sheer bewilderment. It was fatal. There came a rush of air, and Rouse was up alongside, driving him forward and shouting aloud definite instructions. A tall thin boy came towards them and made his tackle; in a mad moment he went high. Too late he realised his mistake. Out of the corner of his eyes he was conscious of the switch, and his hands slid down to the runner’s knees and tightened their grip till both came to the ground and rolled over and over, whilst the ball flew forwards and was gathered by an excited youth in abnormally long knickerbockers of homemade design. Then, high above the laughter of the crowd, there sounded a great bellow, something akin to the cry of a thoroughly mad hyæna. At first it was difficult to locate. Rouse paused and his eyes passed swiftly down either touch-line. The laughter stopped, and he stepped out and cut lightly at a boy who had just received the ball in his hands and had not got away so smartly as he should. The game proceeded. Now and again that loud, extravagant laugh sounded across the field and caused others to turn in search of it. As a noise it was altogether novel. Evidently some poor boy was absolutely unable to control his merriment, and unaware of the fate that would follow him he gave it full rein. At last there could be no doubt who was doing it; the laugh became a magnet. Every head was turned towards it. Half time came, and Rouse spun on his heel and located it definitely. He walked across. On the touch-line he stretched out his hand and pointed out the unfortunate creature. It was the boy of such surprising fatness, the stupid-looking boy, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Toby Nicholson had moved up alongside Rouse.

“Look here,” said he, “why is it you are not playing?”

The fat boy shook his head.

“I don’t play that game.”

Rouse thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded his head.

“Ah,” said he, “many a man is walking down the Strand to-day with the linings of his pockets hanging out, many a lordly mansion has been crumbled into dust, many a stately avenue of elms laid low, many a boy will be knocking at the door of Dr Barnardo’s Home to-night ... all because somebody hasn’t learned the lesson of Rugby football. Do you know that?”

“Why, no,” said the fat boy quakingly.

Toby had produced a small book.

“Your name?”

“Coppin, sir.”

“Go quickly to the changing-rooms and attire yourself for the fray. You will be just in time for the second half.”

“But I ... I ... I can’t play this game.”

“You will soon learn,” said Toby consolingly. “Time was I didn’t know how to play it.” He turned. “You see that boy over there in the long knickerbockers? That boy’s name is Henry Hope. That boy will never learn how to play Rugby football. He has every disadvantage. For one thing he is short-sighted. He cannot distinguish one jersey from another. He tackles his own side. It doesn’t matter. He plays the game just the same and he says that it does him good. You’ll find the same.” He turned to Rouse. “You’d better take this young sportsman to the changing-rooms and fit him out with togs.”

Rouse moved alertly to the fat boy’s side and piloted him out of the crowd and rapidly across the field towards the changing-rooms; and as he went he bubbled to himself delightedly. He turned at last and regarded the unhappy Arthur.

Arthur’s trousers were short and very tight. The sleeves of his coat reached midway between the elbow and the wrist, the buttons of his waistcoat were straining in the leash, and his neck bulged over the top of his collar. The pace was too much for him. He began to pant.

“You’ll feel better with your clothes off,” said Rouse encouragingly. “Hold your breath for just a few minutes longer; you’ll be able to let off steam properly as soon as you’re unfastened ... and you will look bonny in shorts.”

He chuckled.

“What is going to happen?” demanded Arthur. “What are they going to make me do?”

“Run,” said Rouse hoarsely.

“Shall I be thrown to the ground like those other boys?”

“You will be thrown to the dogs,” was the immediate answer.

“Oh, but it’s such a rough game. I shall be hurt.”

“What? You? Never!” Rouse assured him. “Everybody who falls on you will think you’re an air cushion.”

Further bursts of laughter reached them from across the open, and they turned. To the fat boy’s satisfaction other stragglers were being led in his own track. There was a tall thin boy, and a square boy with hair like hay, and an ordinary-looking boy and an extraordinary-looking boy. They had all been sorted out. He supposed they had all been laughing. Arthur turned back. His world was very drear. He was filled with acute foreboding. They had reached the changing-room. He was led in. Here, so far as those who were waiting on the touch-line were concerned, the curtain fell. At last it was lifted again. The sight was astounding. Arthur was being led back. Behind him came the other boys who had laughed so heartily, but they were unimportant. Arthur held the eye. His extraordinary fatness was now entirely disclosed. Wherever it was possible to bulge Arthur bulged. And his eyes were bulging most of all.

Rouse held him by the arm. Evidently he had had some difficulty in fitting Arthur out, but he was apparently well pleased with the result.

Toby met them and spent a few moments in outlining the theory of the game for Arthur’s benefit. Arthur nodded his head dolefully. It was clear that he had not another laugh left in his system. Also he looked cold.

He was led on to the field. The other new-comers were sorted out and instructed to replace some of those who had had enough of it. Then the whistle blew. There came a thump of a boot meeting leather and the ball was sailing towards Arthur. For just one second Arthur regarded it stiffly, transfixed with horror, then he turned and ran rapidly in the other direction. There was a howl of derision. Arthur turned. There was no way of escape. The ball was bouncing after him. It was like a nightmare. From all sides of the field boys were rushing towards it. He gave one choking cry, threw up his hands and fell heavily on his face. Next moment a swarm of forwards had crowded round him and were packing down over his prostrate body. Somebody seized him by the leg and pulled him out of the way. He rose and looked round him with wild eyes. His hair was ruffled. There was mud upon his nose.

Rouse came up and explained to him what he ought to have done. He looked at Rouse dazedly. Rouse inserted him bodily into the scrum, head down, and told him to push.

He fell on his face. Rouse picked him up, and he tottered and fell on his back. The game went on and left him there. Rouse shouted to him, and he rose and stood for a moment with boggling eyes and nodding head, thinking. Toby pointed into the distance and spoke cheering words.

“Chase after it, man! Scoot! Catch ’em up!”

He began to trot foolishly up the field, with Rouse behind him. And then suddenly the ball came sailing towards him again and dropped directly on to his chest. He clutched at it as if for support and Rouse let loose a loud shout of delight.

“NOW! You’re off. Nothing can stop you!” He whipped him gently into a gallop.

As if suddenly imbued with the spirit of the game Arthur began to show determination. A boy flew at him. Arthur handed him off with violence.

“Let me alone!” he cried, suddenly very wrath.

Another essayed to tackle him. Arthur struggled clear of his grasp but overbalanced and let go the ball.

Immediately another boy had sprung forward and gathered it.

Arthur shot after him. He suddenly understood. Everybody was against him. He had to get the ball and everybody was trying to steal it away. The sole idea of the game was that he should be allowed to run about the field holding the ball, and they were all cheating. They wouldn’t let him do it. He caught the thief by his jersey and tugged him back.

His fierce cries sounded across the field.

“Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me!”

He had nearly got it. Somebody pulled him back, and he struggled in his grasp.

“Let me to the ball,” he besought, sobbing with bitterness. “Oh, let me to the ball.”

So they stood back and let him to the ball. Rouse had signed to them.

He had it at last.

He smiled gleefully. He begun to trot up the field like a pup with a slipper. He looked from side to side as if for applause, began to raise his knees higher and higher from the ground. Rouse ran joyously beside him, pointing out the distant goal-line as if it were a promised land and instructing him what to do.

He was delighted beyond measure. He did not know that everybody was standing about the field watching him go, and trying to throttle hysteric laughter. He thought that he was the hero of the hour. At last they were nearly there. It was a good thing because he was beginning to puff.

“HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A
SLIPPER.”

“Put it on that line,” said Rouse. “Put it down there, then touch it down.”

He had arrived. He bent obediently and did as he was bid.

“There you are,” said Rouse happily. “You’ve scored a try.”

Arthur turned and looked round and about. Everywhere boys were throwing caps into the air and cheering. It was a great moment. Toby had come up and seemed to be speaking to him, but in the wild noise of applause he could not distinguish a word. He grinned broadly.

At last the thunder of cheers died down.

“That’s Rugger,” said Toby. “It’s a great game. Don’t you think so? You’ll play it all your life now. That’s your first game and you’ll never forget it.”

He never did. Nobody who learns Rugger at Harley ever does.

The boy who had sat in the corner had been learning Rugger that afternoon too, and as he walked slowly off the field a tall fellow, considerably older than he, came up and touched him on the arm.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

Bobbie Carr looked up, then slowly seemed to remember, and to the other it appeared that he turned a little pale. At first he made no answer. He just looked. Eventually he turned away.

The other still held his arm.

“D’you mean to say your father has sent you to a public school?” said he.

He was not a nice-looking fellow. He had a remarkably long and disproportionate nose. Also his lips had a sarcastic turn. His name was Coles.

“This is good,” said he, and gave a short laugh. “I must write and tell the gov’nor about this. He’ll be awfully amused. What do you think the fellows here will say when they know what your father is?”

Bobbie Carr looked straight up at him, but there was a queer look of anxiety on his face.

“They’re not going to know,” said he at last. “I’ve promised I wouldn’t say.”

“I should think so,” said Coles. “You won’t be very happy here when they find out he’s a——”

A figure came up suddenly from behind and moved between them. A large hand rested upon Bobbie’s shoulder.

“Well, sonny,” said Rouse. “How did you enjoy it?”

CHAPTER III
COMING EVENTS

The new Headmaster of Harley was a man of considerable importance and an overpowering belief in himself; for which reason he formed hasty opinions, and having once formed them believed them to be correct for ever afterwards. In appearance he was not unlike a bloodhound in spectacles, and his manner was appropriately grim.

The first case that came before his notice was that of Arthur, and he dealt with it in person. “Because,” said he, “at Wilton I had the reputation of knowing each boy individually, and I should like to know each boy here as soon as I possibly can.”

The railway company had reported that Arthur had had the audacity to travel upon their line without a ticket, and Arthur was accordingly brought in and required to furnish his explanation of the outrage. This he did in the most heart-rending manner, with second-hand sort of tears spurting from his eyes all the time, and with such effect that, after listening to his pitiable tale, the new Head became convinced that he had been set upon in the train by a cowardly ruffian belonging to the school, and apparently even a prefect of it, who had wrenched his ticket from him by brute force and torn it to shreds before his very eyes. Arthur went so far as to give detailed information. The felon’s name was Rouse. He had introduced himself. And he was a friend of a boy called Nicholson, whose brother was a master at school.

The new Head sent him away with a comforting pat on the shoulder and settled himself down to consider a fitting punishment for the scoundrel who could do such a thing.

Now as luck would have it, that afternoon he was standing in majesty beside his window, looking out upon the kingdom he had come to govern, when his eye lighted upon a Rugby game in progress upon a distant football ground, and he suddenly came to an abrupt decision.

“At Wilton,” he told the bursar, “I had the reputation of only going out to watch games when I was least expected to do so.”

He nodded his head pleasantly.

He would take the boys of Harley completely by surprise. He moved swiftly to the door and disappeared.

As a matter of fact it was, in the result, he himself who was taken by surprise, and he returned with a dour expression and sent for Mr Nicholson.

Toby appeared before him in due course.

It was immediately clear to Toby that in Dr Roe he perceived a gentleman with a strong sense of dramatic effect, and he now stood by and prepared to watch what he imagined would be a very powerful piece of acting, indicating wrath.

The Head was, however, deep in thought, and whilst Toby waited he noticed several little things, the first of which was that the carpet did not match the colouring of the new Headmaster’s nose. He also noticed that Dr Roe’s handwriting sloped backwards, which he knew for a bad sign in any man. He then adjusted the hang of his trousers, blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and commenced to count the roses on one square yard of the wall-paper, first with one eye and then with the other. Finding that the result was the same in each case, and deducing therefrom that his sight was still good, he cleared his throat and approached the wall with a view to observing school life from a window.

As soon as he had turned Dr Roe broke into speech, thus to Toby’s mind having him at a disadvantage from the start. When Toby distrusted a man he liked to look in his eye all the time.

The new Head rose slowly to his feet, lifted one hand until it was a suitable height from the table, clenched it and brought it down with a bang upon a large book. He then lifted his hand again, shook his finger at Toby as if in reproach, and began to speak rapidly.

“Only this morning,” said he, “I had a little boy before me who had undoubtedly come up against a bully. He was terrified. He came in here and cried.... He had been set upon in the train and robbed of his ticket. At Wilton I had the reputation of being a lightning judge of character and an infallible one, and I can tell you at once that this boy was undoubtedly speaking the truth. In ten minutes’ conversation I came to know him as well as he knew himself, and I shall watch over him henceforward with interest.” He paused. “I decided,” said he, “to delay punishment of the offender a short while and to get to know more about this bully whilst he still had no reason to suppose that his conduct was known to me. I may tell you that at Wilton I had the reputation of knowing how to wait.”

This seemed to Toby a very useful second string to any man’s bow. Dismissed from the post of Headmaster, Dr Roe would at least be able to find lucrative employment in a smart restaurant.

However, he made no comment.

“This afternoon,” continued the Head, “I went out to watch the boys playing football. Certainly I did not arrive till after half time, but I may tell you that to my mind the game I then witnessed was mere tomfoolery—a burlesque, sir—deliberate clowning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Toby cheerfully. “It was the first game of the term. New-comers sides.”

“Then, perhaps, you will tell me,” said the new Head somewhat hotly, “the name of the presumably senior boy—a fellow in a tasselled cap anyway—whose whole object was to get in people’s way and interfere in the game as much as possible, and who did it, moreover, purely to vent his spite against the very boy who was before me this morning?”

“You mean Rouse,” said Toby. “He’s captain of foot——”

The Head rose up and made a fiery gesture.

“I knew it,” said he. “I knew it. They used to say at Wilton that my sense of instinct was uncanny—they used to say that I always guessed right. I guessed right this afternoon. As soon as I saw that little boy being pursued about the grass I knew it was Rouse.... I knew the little fellow had been speaking the truth. Rouse, Mr Nicholson, was the name of the fellow who tore up his ticket on the journey from London.” He paused sensationally. “It may be,” said he, “that you were engrossed with your duties as referee this afternoon. Possibly you did not notice that feature of the game which was most evident to me. Throughout the twenty minutes that I was there the fellow Rouse was on the little boy’s track without respite. I personally saw him viciously cane the lad on the field, and a worse example of flagrant bullying has seldom come before my notice.”

Toby cleared his throat and began to explain.

“I don’t care one atom about custom,” said the Head, when he had listened thirty seconds. “I may be new to this school but I am not an idiot. Public School customs are in constant abuse—take this very example. You teach Rugby football with a switch. The first thing that I notice is that a senior boy, against whom evidence has already been laid, is deliberately using his switch to terrorise a little boy.”

“Oh no,” said Toby, with a polite smile. “You’re——”

The Head made another gesture.

“Oh yes,” said he, with considerable force. “Surely I can use my own eyes!”

Toby began again.

“Don’t argue, Mr Nicholson,” said Dr Roe. “At Wilton I had the reputation of rarely showing my temper, but of showing it very thoroughly when it was roused. And it is roused now. Do you mean to tell me that this boy is actually captain of football?”

“Yes,” said Toby mildly; “and a very good captain too. He’s one of the most popular boys in the school.”

The Head was somewhat taken aback.

“Well, at all events,” said he, “I don’t remember noticing him in the Sixth Form.”

It was an awkward point. Toby moved slightly upon his feet. He was not going to confess that Rouse was one of the school’s pet dunces.

“He’s not in the Sixth Form yet,” said he.

The Head clapped his hands and sprang nimbly from one foot to the other.

“Then,” said he, “how can he be captain of football if he’s not even a prefect?”

“He is a prefect. The late Headmaster specially wished him to be. He knew that he would be captain of football this term, and he considered it would be a very good thing indeed for the boy’s character. Of course the captain of each sport here is a prefect ex officio, whether he’s in the Sixth or not, and the Head wished him to have a full term as a prefect before he became captain of Rugger.”

The Head considered this point with a portentous frown, and at last he looked up at Toby and said:

“I think you had better know at once that those are not my principles. To my mind the boy who leads the school team on to the field of play should be the boy who is captain of the school, and if by any chance he himself is not a very keen footballer, then the next senior boy should take his place. Boys have to be made to learn that being able to kick a football in a certain direction with a certain force is not everything in life. And they learn that best if they find that a boy is not allowed to be captain of football unless he is also one of the most senior boys in the Sixth Form.”

He paused and sat down like one who is conscious of having performed a righteous duty. Toby began to go hot and cold all over.

“Every school has its unwritten laws, sir,” he began. “It has always been the understanding here that each game is captained by the boy who is best or most senior at it, irrespective of his scholastic ability.”

The Head grew visibly annoyed.

“I have already told you that I do not agree with that principle, Mr Nicholson,” said he; “and to-morrow I shall visit this boy’s form and question him on his general knowledge. It remains to be seen from the opinion I then form whether I consider him a suitable boy to remain a prefect under my headmastership, or to lead the school on the football field. I must say that from the judgment I formed of him this afternoon he is most unsuitable for those duties.”

Toby essayed a protest.

“But, sir,” said he, “this boy has been elected by the school.... He is their chosen captain.”

Dr Roe rose in his majesty. Unfortunately he was a man of somewhat ordinary build, and as against Toby, therefore, he did not in this respect cut much ice. He lifted his hand above his head, and bringing it slowly horizontal, indicated Toby with a bunch of fingers.

“Mr Nicholson,” said he, “whilst I am Headmaster of this school no boy is elected to any position without my authority. I have been a schoolmaster all my life, and at Wilton I had the reputation of making sometimes apparently ruthless decisions and of sticking to them through thick and thin. I do not crave popularity.... I have strong ideas and a strong will. If necessary the boys here will be made to understand that at once. It may save considerable heart burnings afterwards.”

He paused and glared at Toby as if in challenge. Toby declined with thanks. It was clear that he would not improve matters by saying more at the moment. There was a brief silence. At last the new Head looked up.

“There is another thing,” said he. “I like games to be taken seriously. Such frivolity as I saw this afternoon tends to have a very bad effect upon a boy. I hope you will bear that in mind in future games which you conduct.”

Toby drew a deep breath.

“I think you will understand better, sir,” said he, “if you will listen to me for a moment. The boy that you think was being terrorised had been laughing as loudly as any boy possibly could throughout the first half, whilst other boys with a better spirit were learning to play.”

“Well,” said the Head crossly, “considering he was crying only this morning, why shouldn’t he laugh? I am very glad to know that his talk with me had so reassured him.”

“It is a bad thing,” said Toby, “for boys who are learning a game to be laughed at from the touch-line by those who don’t care to try it themselves. Rugby football is compulsory at this school, and that fact has a very excellent effect. It was I who told him to come on and play. There was no bullying.”

“My dear Nicholson,” said Dr Roe, “I have been a schoolmaster longer probably than you have been alive. Do you really think that I do not know a bully when I see one?”

Toby endeavoured to retain his calm.

“It is possible to be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” snapped the other.

“But you see, sir,” insisted Toby, “you haven’t even spoken to Rouse.”

“Because,” said Dr Roe, “I wish to learn all I possibly can about him before I do. I have spoken to the other lad, and I am satisfied that he is telling the truth. I have seen this fellow Rouse making himself a clown at a football match, and I have learnt from you that, although he has been five years at the school, he is not yet in the Sixth Form. It is clear that you have a good opinion of him yourself, but you are, after all, a young man, Nicholson.”

“What has that to do with it?” asked Toby smilingly.

“Well ... I understand,” said the other, “that this boy is the bosom chum of your own brother; and it is therefore not unlikely that he is a friend of your own....” He looked at Toby searchingly. “Under these circumstance, I cannot altogether expect that your good opinion of him is entirely unprejudiced.”

“Then,” said Toby, “why did you trouble to ask my opinion, sir?”

“I sent for you,” said the Head, “because you are games master, and I want to tell you that I do not approve of such buffoonery as took place during the game this afternoon.”

Toby’s natural inclination was to bow politely and ask leave to pack his bag. But it was at just such a time as this that his love for Harley grew most profound. So he kept silent, and he stood for a moment looking at the new Headmaster thoughtfully and as clearly in pity as he deemed polite.

“Do you wish to see Rouse?” said he at last.

“Certainly I shall see Rouse—but I shall not see him here. At Wilton I had the reputation of never doing the expected. I shall walk across to his house and speak to his house master. Then I shall visit him in his study. When you are older, Nicholson, you will know that it is in his own haunts, and when he is not expecting visitors, that you find animal or man as he really is.”

Toby’s heart sank. He looked dismally into the future and he could see no sunshine at all. With a Headmaster like this there could be no hope. It was going to be a lean year.

Well, if it was a question of Harley’s principles going under to a man who merely sought to make a sensational entry into the school, he would have to fight. And in the immediate future he would have to fight for Rouse. So in his mind’s eye he made a few movements as of a sailor about to start a hornpipe and followed the Headmaster out of the room. Dr Roe turned.

“That will be all, Mr Nicholson, thank you,” said he. “I will go alone.”

CHAPTER IV
A SLIGHT MISTAKE

The procession came down the corridor and stopped outside a small door. It was headed by a tall boy, as thin as a match-stick, and with a face so tiny that it seemed to be almost entirely hidden behind a pair of enormous spectacles which he wore tied round his ears with knotted elastic bands. Behind this boy came another of his own age, but less extraordinary in appearance, and behind them, in their turn, came Rouse and Terence Nicholson. The boy in spectacles rejoiced in the name of Henry Hope, and he claimed to have been the devoted admirer of Rouse and Terence longer than anybody else in the school. Certainly no other boy would have dared to go and roust the captain of Rugby football out of his sanctum merely in the hope that he would set right a small minor trouble of his own. It is true that the fact that Rouse happened to be the said captain made a certain difference. Rouse was everybody’s friend and particularly the friend of unhappy juniors. But what made the chief difference was the fact that one of the boys in trouble on this particular occasion was Henry Hope.

Henry drew his crony aside, and they stood for a moment looking at the two seniors in turn with eyes that shone with admiration, until at last Rouse spoke.

“Yes,” said he. “This is the one all right. No. 18, the list said. There can’t be any mistake.”

“Are you sure that it said No. 18?” asked Terence modestly. “Seems rather odd.”

“My good sir,” responded Rouse, “there is no doubt about it.”

He moved forward and opened the door. Terence came up alongside and they stood for a moment regarding the interior.

“Well, it isn’t a bad one,” said Terence at last.

Rouse regarded him with deep sorrow.

“You are a sunny child.”

“Sunny?”

Rouse nodded his head.

“You look on the bright side, the side that jolly well isn’t there. Myself, I cannot conceive how by any freak of fancy Henry could possibly have secured a worse hovel than this. It is the first time he’s ever had a study, and now he’s got one that they’ve forgotten about so long that it’s gone to seed. There’s moss growing on the very walls—moss, I tell you. Look at the fireplace. It’s a kind of ‘Spiders’ Retreat.’ They say there’s no study for him, and then after three days they say there is, and they give him one—this—a kennel in the attic. There’s not a stick of furniture in it. True, there’s a picture postcard on the mantelpiece depicting some phase of life in a foreign clime—a man in a red fez picking hops, I think it is. You’ll probably find it’s addressed to some fellow who’s since died of old age. And it’s the only sign that there’s ever been any life in the place at all. I do not see even a modern nail anywhere in the wall to hang your hat on. There’s probably an official ghost attached to this study. The place is absolutely mouldy. The ceiling has caved in and the walls have warped, and the fellows who’ve had studies near here at odd times during the last forty years have been in on organised raids and pinched every blessed thing.” He paused at last for breath. “And you,” he said presently, “you—always the gentleman—you—such a one with your joking ways—you open the door and look inside, and then you throw back your head and intone the following words: ‘It isn’t a bad one.’

“Well, it’s better than not having a study at all.”

“Indeed it is,” admitted Rouse. “How nice it will be to sit in here on one’s bowler hat, drinking cold tea out of a glove.”

“We’ll rake round for a table for him,” suggested Terence hopefully.

“Yes, and the only way you’ll get one at this period will be by sucking the multiplication table off the back of an exercise-book. It’s three days since term started, my dear old bean.”

Terence persisted.

“I’ve got some photographs in my bag,” said he. “We’ll put them up.”

“Put ’em up? Easier to put them up than for poor old Henry to put up with them. He’ll get pretty weary sitting in here never more than eighteen inches away from his partner as it is. Is his only relaxation to be a turning of the head to gaze upon your likeness on the walls?”

“They aren’t photographs of me.”

“Whom, then, do they portray?”

“One,” responded Terence, with every modesty, “portrays Phyllis Dare in evening dress.”

“Right,” said Rouse more kindly. “Put it up then. Have you any other delight you can stick on the wall for him?”

“Not in my pocket at this moment. But I’ll go and see Toby. He might be able to produce something. If not, perhaps he can hire a bit of furniture.”

“A piano, perchance,” said the other. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Anyway,” said Terence, “I’ll go and see him. Probably he can suggest something.”

“Very well, my child; and if you see anybody who seems to be at a loose end at all whilst you’re gone, ask him to come back and have a really comfortable sit-down with Henry and a nice cup of hot tea.”

Terence moved away obediently, and when he had gone Rouse took one final look at the study, tossed his head and then, coming to a sudden decision, bade Henry stay there with his friend and wait; then he walked rapidly away down the corridor in search of the house porter, an individual for whose resource he had considerable admiration, partly because he could put lighted matches into his mouth and clench his teeth without putting out the light.

The house porter, who had been at the school only a little over twelve months, was one of those gentlemen that are described in police court reports as “of military appearance,” which means to say that his hair was dressed in that fashion known as a cowlick, and that his moustache was waxed. On hot days, however, this wax used to melt, giving his face a somewhat mournful and untidy appearance. His name was Compton, and at the moment when Rouse burst in upon him he was sitting on a stool in his private den, his knees hunched up under his chin and his eyes fixed rigidly upon the letterpress of a paper-covered novel which he was clutching earnestly in his fists. He did not at once look up, and when eventually he sensed the presence of an intruder he seemed a trifle annoyed. Nevertheless, Rouse greeted him with a variety of graceful gestures before he eventually said his say.

“Acting upon information received,” he explained, “Mr Nicholson and I have just prised open the door of the study allotted to a little boy called Hope, with a view to inspecting its desirability as a residence; and all we have found inside is the portrait of a man in a red fez picking hops.”

He paused and coughed deprecatingly behind his hand as if loath to complain. Compton looked at him dazedly. Clearly he had not yet thoroughly extricated himself from that romantic world in which men live perpetually in evening dress and speak glibly of their college days. He rose and laid down his novel with a sigh.

“The incident has somewhat unnerved my friend Nicholson,” said Rouse apologetically, “also the boy Hope, and I was quite unable to persuade either of them to come and consult with you. I myself thought that you, if you could, would aid the lad in his dire extremity. You might even be able to tell him where he could find something to sit on—anything would do so long as it hasn’t too many rusty nails in it.” He reached out and indicated Compton’s stool suggestively. “That, for example,” said he, “would suit excellently. We have the whole evening before us, and it would be very enjoyable indeed for him to have a good sit-down after his game of football.”

Compton turned and looked first at his stool and then at Rouse.

“What is it you want, sir?” he inquired somewhat uncertainly.

“It’s a study,” said Rouse. “There’s no furniture in the place at all.”

“Study?” repeated the patient fellow. “But ain’t there a table and a couple of chairs in it? Surely——” He began to fondle his chin. “Why, every study has a table and a couple of chairs.”

“I expect this one did have a long time ago,” said Rouse, “but if so they must have died in infancy.”

“They may have been stole.”

Rouse considered this point with care.