03 Tales of St.Austin's

Charteris found things particularly dull. He was a fair average runner, but there were others far better at every distance, so that he saw no use in mortifying the flesh with strict training. On the other hand, in view of the fact that the final House-match had yet to be played, and that Merevale’s was one of the two teams that were going to play it, it behoved him to keep himself at least moderately fit. The genial muffin and the cheery crumpet were still things to be avoided. He thus found himself in a position where, apparently, the few things which it was possible for him to do were barred, and the net result was that he felt slightly dull.

To make matters worse, all the rest of his set were working full time at their various employments, and had no leisure for amusing him. Welch practised hundred-yard sprints daily, and imagined that it would be quite a treat for Charteris to be allowed to time him. So he gave him the stopwatch, saw him safely to the end of the track, and at a given signal dashed off in the approved American style. By the time he reached the tape, dutifully held by two sporting Merevalian juniors, Charteris’s attention had generally been attracted elsewhere. ‘What time?’ Welch would pant. ‘By Jove,’ Charteris would observe blandly, ‘I forgot to look. About a minute and a quarter, I fancy.’ At which Welch, who always had a notion that he had done it in ten and a fifth that time, at any rate, would dissemble his joy, and mildly suggest that somebody else should hold the watch. Then there was Jim Thomson, generally a perfect mine of elevating conversation. He was in for the mile and also the half, and refused to talk about anything except those distances, and the best methods for running them in the minimum of time. Charteris began to feel a blue melancholy stealing over him. The Babe, again. He might have helped to while away the long hours, but unfortunately the Babe had been taken very bad with a notion that he was going to win the ‘cross-country run, and when, in addition to this, he was seized with a panic with regard to the prospects of the House team in the final, and began to throw out hints concerning strict training, Charteris regarded him as a person to be avoided. If he fled to the Babe for sympathy now, the Babe would be just as likely as not to suggest that he should come for a ten-mile spin with him, to get him into condition for the final Houser. The very thought of a ten- mile spin made Charteris feel faint. Lastly, there was Tony. But Tony’s company was worse than none at all. He went about with his arm in a sling, and declined to be comforted. But for his injury, he would by now have been training hard for the Aldershot Boxing Competition, and the fact that he was now definitely out of it had a very depressing effect upon him. He lounged moodily about the gymnasium, watching Menzies, who was to take his place, sparring with the instructor, and refused consolation. Altogether, Charteris found life a distinct bore.

He was reduced to such straits for amusement, that one Wednesday afternoon, finding himself with nothing else to do, he was working at a burlesque and remarkably scurrilous article on ‘The Staff, by one who has suffered’, which he was going to insert in The Glow Worm, an unofficial periodical which he had started for the amusement of the School and his own and his contributors’ profit. He was just warming to his work, and beginning to enjoy himself, when the door opened without a preliminary knock. Charteris deftly slid a piece of blotting-paper over his MS., for Merevale occasionally entered a study in this manner. And though there was nothing about Merevale himself in the article, it would be better perhaps, thought Charteris, if he did not see it. But it was not Merevale. It was somebody far worse. The Babe.

The Babe was clothed as to his body in football clothes, and as to face, in a look of holy enthusiasm. Charteris knew what that look meant. It meant that the Babe was going to try and drag him out for a run.

‘Go away, Babe,’ he said, ‘I’m busy.’

‘Why on earth are you slacking in here on this ripping afternoon?’

‘Slacking!’ said Charteris. ‘I like that. I’m doing berrain work, Babe. I’m writing an article on masters and their customs, which will cause a profound sensation in the Common Room. At least it would, if they ever saw it, but they won’t. Or I hope they won’t for their sake and mine. So run away, my precious Babe, and don’t disturb your uncle when he’s busy.’

‘Rot,’ said the Babe firmly, ‘you haven’t taken any exercise for a week.’

Charteris replied proudly that he had wound up his watch only last night. The Babe refused to accept the remark as relevant to the matter in hand.

‘Look here, Alderman,’ he said, sitting down on the table, and gazing sternly at his victim, ‘it’s all very well, you know, but the final comes on in a few days, and you know you aren’t in any too good training.’

‘I am,’ said Charteris, ‘I’m as fit as a prize fighter. Simply full of beans. Feel my ribs.’

The Babe declined the offer.

‘No, but I say,’ he said plaintively, ‘I wish you’d treat it seriously. It’s getting jolly serious, really. If Dacre’s win that cup again this year, that’ll make four years running.’

‘Not so,’ said Charteris, like the mariner of infinite-resource-and-sagacity; ‘not so, but far otherwise. It’ll only make three.’

‘Well, three’s bad enough.’

‘True, oh king, three is quite bad enough.’

‘Well, then, there you are. Now you see.’

Charteris looked puzzled.

‘Would you mind explaining that remark?’ he said. ‘Slowly.’

But the Babe had got off the table, and was prowling round the room, opening cupboards and boxes.

‘What are you playing at?’ enquired Charteris.

‘Where do you keep your footer things?’

‘What do you want with my footer things, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I’m going to help you put them on, and then you’re coming for a run.’

‘Ah,’ said Charteris.

‘Yes. Just a gentle spin to keep you in training. Hullo, this looks like them.’

He plunged both hands into a box near the window and flung out a mass of football clothes. It reminded Charteris of a terrier digging at a rabbit-hole.

He protested.

‘Don’t, Babe. Treat ‘em tenderly. You’ll be spoiling the crease in those bags if you heave ‘em about like that. I’m very particular about how I look on the football field. I was always taught to dress