08 The White Feather

“Court-martial me!”

“For funking. They don’t know about Aldershot, not a word. I bagged the Sportsman early, and hid it. They are going to get the surprise of their lifetime. I said I’d come up and fetch you.”

“I shan’t go,” said Sheen.

Linton looked alarmed.

“Oh, but I say, you must. Don’t spoil the thing. Can’t you see what a rag it’ll be?”

“I’m not going to sweat downstairs for the benefit of the senior day-room.”

“I say,” said Linton, “Stanning’s there.”

“What!”

“He’s a witness,” said Linton, grinning.

Sheen got up.

“Come on,” he said.

Linton came on.

Down in the senior day-room the court was patiently awaiting the prisoner. Eager anticipation was stamped on its expressive features.

“Beastly time he is,” said Clayton. Clayton was acting as president.

“We shall have to buck up,” said Stanning. “Hullo, here he is at last. Come in, Linton.”

“I was going to,” said Linton, “but thanks all the same. Come along, Sheen.”

“Shut that door, Linton,” said Stanning from his seat on the table.

“All right, Stanning,” said Linton. “Anything to oblige. Shall I bring up a chair for you to rest your feet on?”

“Forge ahead, Clayton,” said Stanning to the president.

The president opened the court-martial in unofficial phraseology.

“Look here, Sheen,” he said, “we’ve come to the conclusion that this has got a bit too thick.”

“You mustn’t talk in that chatty way, Clayton,” interrupted Linton. “‘Prisoner at the bar’s‘ the right expression to use. Why don’t you let somebody else have a look in? You’re the rottenest president of a court-martial I ever saw.”

“Don’t rag, Linton,” said Clayton, with an austere frown. “This is serious.”

“Glad you told me,” said Linton. “Go on.”

“Can’t you sit down, Linton!” said Stanning.

“I was only waiting for leave. Thanks. You were saying something, Clayton. It sounded pretty average rot, but you’d better unburden your soul.”

The president resumed.

“We want to know if you’ve anything to say—”

“You don’t give him a chance,” said Linton. “You bag the conversation so.”

“—about disgracing the house.”

“By getting the Gotford, you know, Sheen,” explained Linton. “Clayton thinks that work’s a bad habit, and ought to be discouraged.”

Clayton glared, and looked at Stanning. He was not equal to the task of tackling Linton himself.

Stanning interposed.

“Don’t rot, Linton. We haven’t much time as it is.”

“Sorry,” said Linton.

“You’ve let the house down awfully,” said Clayton.

“Yes?” said Sheen.

Linton took the paper out of his pocket, and smoothed it out.

“Seen the Sporter?” he asked casually. His neighbour grabbed at it.

“I thought it hadn’t come,” he said.

“Good account of Aldershot,” said Linton.

He leaned back in his chair as two or three of the senior day-room collected round the Sportsman.

“Hullo! We won the gym.!”

“Rot! Let’s have a look!”

This tremendous announcement quite eclipsed the court-martial as an object of popular interest. The senior day-room surged round the holder of the paper.

“Give us a chance,” he protested.