08 The White Feather

He grubbed a little hole in one of Mr Seymour’s flower-beds, and laid the Sportsman to rest in it. The news would be about the school at nine o’clock, but if he could keep it from the senior day-room till the brief interval between breakfast and school, all would be well, and he would have the pure pleasure of seeing that backbone of the house make a complete ass of itself. A thought struck him. He unearthed the Sportsman, and put it in his pocket.

He strolled into the senior day-room after breakfast.

“Any one seen the Sporter this morning?” he inquired.

No one had seen it.

“The thing hasn’t come,” said some one.

“Good!” said Linton to himself.

At this point Stanning strolled into the room. “I’m a witness,” he said, in answer to Linton’s look of inquiry. “We’re doing this thing in style. I depose that I saw the prisoner cutting off on the—whatever day it was, when he ought to have been saving our lives from the fury of the mob. Hadn’t somebody better bring the prisoner into the dock?”

“I’ll go,” said Linton promptly. “I may be a little time, but don’t get worried. I’ll bring him all right.”

He went upstairs to Sheen’s study, feeling like an impresario about to produce a new play which is sure to create a sensation.

Sheen was in. There was a ridge of purple under his left eye, but he was otherwise intact.

“‘Gratulate you, Sheen,” said Linton.

For an instant Sheen hesitated. He had rehearsed this kind of scene in his mind, and sometimes he saw himself playing a genial, forgiving, let’s-say-no-more-about-it-we-all-make-mistakes-but-in-future! role, sometimes being cold haughty, and distant, and repelling friendly advances with icy disdain. If anybody but Linton had been the first to congratulate him he might have decided on this second line of action. But he liked Linton, and wanted to be friendly with him.

“Thanks,” he said.

Linton sat down on the table and burst into a torrent of speech.

“You are a man! What did you want to do it for? Where the dickens did you learn to box? And why on earth, if you can win silver medals at Aldershot, didn’t you box for the house and smash up that sidey ass Stanning? I say, look here, I suppose we haven’t been making idiots of ourselves all the time, have we?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sheen. “How?”

“I mean, you did—What I mean to say is—Oh, hang it, you know! You did cut off when we had that row in the town, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sheen, “I did.”

With that medal in his pocket it cost him no effort to make the confession.

“I’m glad of that. I mean, I’m glad we haven’t been such fools as we might have been. You see, we only had Stanning’s word to go on.”

Sheen started.

“Stanning!” he said. “What do you mean?”

“He was the chap who started the story. Didn’t you know? He told everybody.”

“I thought it was Drummond,” said Sheen blankly. “You remember meeting me outside his study the day after? I thought he told you then.”

“Drummond! Not a bit of it. He swore you hadn’t been with him at all. He was as sick as anything when I said I thought I’d seen you with him.”

“I—” Sheen stopped. “I wish I’d known,” he concluded. Then, after a pause, “So it was Stanning!”

“Yes,—conceited beast. Oh. I say.”

“Um?”

“I see it all now. Joe Bevan taught you to box.”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s how you came to be at the ‘Blue Boar’ that day. He’s the Bevan who runs it.”

“That’s his brother. He’s got a gymnasium up at the top. I used to go there every day.”

“But I say, Great Scott, what are you going to do about that?”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, Spence is sure to ask you who taught you to box. He must know you didn’t learn with the instructor. Then it’ll all come out, and you’ll get dropped on for going up the river and going to the pub.”

“Perhaps he won’t ask,” said Sheen.

“Hope not. Oh, by the way—”

“What’s up?”

“Just remembered what I came up for. It’s an awful rag. The senior day-room are going to court-martial you.”