‘Then nothing can be done,’ exclaimed Mr Jephson blankly. ‘But it’s absurd. Something must be done. The thing can’t be left as it is. It’s preposterous!’
‘I should imagine,’ said Mr Robertson, ‘from what small knowledge I possess of the Human Boy, that matters will be made decidedly unpleasant for the criminal.’
‘Well, I know one thing; he won’t play for the team again.’
‘There is something very refreshing about your logic, Jephson. Because a boy does not play in one match, you will not let him play in any of the others, though you admit his absence weakens the team. However, I suppose that is unavoidable. Mind you, I think it is a pity. Of course Gethryn has some explanation, if he would only favour us with it. Personally I think rather highly of Gethryn. So does poor old Leicester. He is the only Head-prefect Leicester has had for the last half-dozen years who knows even the rudiments of his business. But it’s no use my preaching his virtues to you. You wouldn’t listen. Take another cigar, and let’s talk about the weather.’
Mr Jephson took the proffered weed, and the conversation, though it did not turn upon the suggested topic, ceased to have anything to do with Gethryn.
The general opinion of the School was dead against the Bishop. One or two of his friends still clung to a hope that explanations might come out, while there were also a few who always made a point of thinking differently from everybody else. Of this class was Pringle. On the Monday after the match he spent the best part of an hour of his valuable time reasoning on the subject with Lorimer. Lorimer’s vote went with the majority. Although he had fielded for the Bishop, he was not, of course, being merely a substitute, allowed to bowl, as the Bishop had had his innings, and it had been particularly galling to him to feel that he might have saved the match, if it had only been possible for him to have played a larger part.
‘It’s no good jawing about it,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a word to say for the man. He hasn’t a leg to stand on. Why, it would be bad enough in a House or form match even, but when it comes to first matches—!’ Here words failed Lorimer.
‘Not at all,’ said Pringle, unmoved. ‘There are heaps of reasons, jolly good reasons, why he might have gone away.’
‘Such as?’ said Lorimer.
‘Well, he might have been called away by a telegram, for instance.’
‘What rot! Why should he make such a mystery of it if that was all?’
‘He’d have explained all right if somebody had asked him properly. You get a chap like Norris, who, when he loses his hair, has got just about as much tact as a rhinoceros, going and ballyragging the man, and no wonder he won’t say anything. I shouldn’t myself.’
‘Well, go and talk to him decently, then. Let’s see you do it, and I’ll bet it won’t make a bit of difference. What the chap has done is to go and get himself mixed up in some shady business somewhere. That’s the only thing it can be.’
‘Rot,’ said Pringle, ‘the Bishop isn’t that sort of chap.’
‘You can’t tell. I say,’ he broke off suddenly, ‘have you done that poem yet?’
Pringle started. He had not so much as begun that promised epic.
‘I—er—haven’t quite finished it yet. I’m thinking it out, you know. Getting a sort of general grip of the thing.’
‘Oh. Well, I wish you’d buck up with it. It’s got to go in tomorrow week.’
‘Tomorrow week. Tuesday the what? Twenty-second, isn’t it? Right. I’ll remember. Two days after the O.B.s’ match. That’ll fix it in my mind. By the way, your people are going to come down all right, aren’t they? I mean, we shall have to be getting in supplies and so on.’
‘Yes. They’ll be coming. There’s plenty of time, though, to think of that. What you’ve got to do for the present is to keep your mind glued on the death of Dido.’
‘Rather,’ said Pringle, ‘I won’t forget.’
This was at six twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the College clock-tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction, and Dido, her death, and everything connected with her, had faded from his mind like a beautiful dream.
[11]
POETRY AND STUMP-CRICKET
The Old Beckfordians’ match came off in due season, and Pringle enjoyed it thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings, he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the School had a hundred and twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first with Marriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the School a ten wickets victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form. He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J.R. Smith, whose fag he had been in the old days. When at School, Smith had always been singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found that much pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling. Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictly speaking, good for him, and did the honours at the study tea-party with the grace of a born host. And, as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer
It is not to be wondered at that in the midst of these festivities such trivialities as Lorimer’s poem found no place in his thoughts. It was not until the following day that he was reminded of it.
That Sunday was a visiting Sunday. Visiting Sundays occurred three times a term, when everybody who had friends and relations in the neighbourhood was allowed to spend the day with them. Pringle on such occasions used to ride over to Biddlehampton, the scene of Farnie’s adventures, on somebody else’s bicycle, his destination being the residence of a certain Colonel Ashby, no relation, but a great friend of his father’s.
The gallant Colonel had, besides his other merits—which were numerous—the pleasant characteristic of leaving his guests to themselves. To be left to oneself under some circumstances is apt to be a drawback, but in this case there was never any lack of amusements. The only objection that Pringle ever found was that there was too much to do in the time. There was shooting, riding, fishing, and also stump-cricket. Given proper conditions, no game in existence yields to stump-cricket in the matter of excitement. A stable-yard makes the best pitch, for the walls stop all hits and you score solely by boundaries, one for every hit, two if it goes past the coach-room door, four to the end wall, and out if you send it over. It is perfect.
