Paths Of Glory

as hard during the vacation. As he was leaving, Benson added, “And do be sure, Mr. Mallory, to attend the Freshers’ Fair on Sunday, otherwise you will never discover just how many activities this university has to offer. For example,” he said, smiling, “you might consider joining the dramatic society.”

CHAPTER NINE

GUY KNOCKED ON George’s door, but there was no reply. He checked his watch: 10:05. George couldn’t be in hall having breakfast, because they finished serving at nine on a Sunday, and he surely wouldn’t have gone to the Freshers’ Fair without him. He must be either fast asleep or having a bath. Guy knocked again, but still there was no reply. He opened the door and peeked inside. The bed was unmade- nothing unusual about that-an open book lay on the pillow and some papers were strewn across the desk, but there was no sign of George. He must be having a bath.

Guy sat down on the end of the bed and waited. He had long ago stopped complaining about his friend’s inability to understand the purpose of a watch. However, it still annoyed many of George’s acquaintances, who regularly reminded him of Winchester’s motto, Manners Maketh Man. Guy was well aware of his friend’s shortcomings, but he also recognized that George had exceptional gifts. The accident of fate that had placed them in the same carriage on their way to prep school had changed his whole life. While others sometimes found George tactless, even arrogant, if he allowed them into his confidence they also discovered kindness, generosity, and humor in equal measure.

Guy picked up the book from George’s pillow. It was a novel by E. M. Forster, a writer he’d never come across before. He had only managed a few pages of it before George strolled in, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping.

“Is it ten o’clock already?” he asked, taking off his towel and using it to rub his hair.

“Ten past,” said Guy.

“Benson suggested I sign up for the dramatic society. It might give us the chance to meet a few girls.”

“I don’t think it’s girls that Benson is interested in.”

George swung around. “You’re not suggesting…”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed,” said Guy to his friend, who was standing naked in front of him, “it isn’t only girls who give you a second look.”

“And which do you prefer?” asked George, giving him a flick of the towel.

“You’re quite safe with me,” Guy assured him. “Now, could you get a move on? Otherwise everyone will have packed up and gone before we even arrive.”

As they crossed the courtyard George set his usual pace, which Guy always found hard to keep up with.

“What clubs are you going to join?” Guy asked, almost running by his side.

“The ones that won’t admit you,” said George with a grin. “Which ought to leave me a wide enough choice.”

Their pace slowed as they joined a teeming horde of undergraduates who were also making their way to the Freshers’ Fair. Long before they reached Parker’s Piece they could hear bands playing, choirs singing, and a thousand exuberant voices all striving to outdo each other.

A large area of the green was occupied by stalls manned by noisy students, all of whom seemed to be hollering like street traders. George and Guy strolled down the first gangway, soaking up the atmosphere. Guy began to show some interest when a man dressed in cricket whites and carrying a bat and ball, which looked somewhat incongruous in autumn, demanded, “Do either of you play cricket by any chance?”

“I opened the batting for Winchester,” said Guy.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the man with the bat. “My name’s Dick Young.”

Guy, recognizing the name of a man who had played both cricket and football for England, gave a slight bow.

“What about your friend?” Dick asked.

“You needn’t waste your time on him,” said Guy. “He has his sights on higher things, although he happens to be looking for a man who’s also called Young. I’ll catch up with you later, George,” said Guy.

George nodded and strolled off through the crowd, ignoring a cry of, “Do you sing? We’re looking for a tenor.”

“But a fiver will do,” quipped another voice.

“Do you play chess? We must beat Oxford this year.”

“Do you play a musical instrument?” asked a desperate voice. “Even the cymbals?”

George stopped in his tracks when he saw an awning above a stall at the end of the aisle which announced The Fabian Society, founded 1884. He walked quickly toward a man who was waving a pamphlet and shouting, “Equality for all!”

As George came up to him, the man inquired, “Would you care to join our little band? Or are you one of those hide-bound Tory fellows?”

“Certainly not,” said George. “I have long believed in the doctrines of Quintus Fabius Maximus. ‘If you can win a battle without having to fire a shot in anger, you are the true victor.’”

“Good fellow,” said the young man, pushing a form across the table. “Sign up here, and then you can come to our meeting next week, which will be addressed by Mr. George Bernard Shaw. By the way, my name’s Rupert Brooke,” he added, thrusting out his hand. “I’m the club’s secretary.”

George shook Brooke warmly by the hand before filling in the form and handing it back. Brooke glanced at the signature. “I say, old chap,” he said, “are the rumors true?”

“What rumors?” said George.

“That you entered this university by climbing over your college’s wall.”

George was about to reply when a voice behind him said, “And then he was made to climb back out. That’s always the most difficult part.”

“And why is that?” inquired Brooke innocently.

“Simple, really,” said Guy, before George had a chance to speak. “When you’re climbing up a rock face, your hands are not more than a few inches from your eyes, but when you’re coming down, your feet are never less than five feet below you, which means that when you look down you’ve far more chance of losing your balance. Got the idea?”

George laughed. “Ignore my friend,” he said. “And not just because he’s a hide-bound Tory, but he’s also a lackey of the capitalist system.”

“True enough,” said Guy without shame.

“So what clubs have you signed up for?” asked Brooke, turning his attention to Guy.

“Apart from cricket, the Union, the Disraeli Society, and the Officers’ Training Corps,” replied Guy.

“Good heavens,” said Brooke. “Is there no hope for the man?”

“None whatsoever,” admitted Guy. Turning to George, he added, “But at least I’ve found what you’ve been looking for, so the time has come for you to follow me.”

George raised his mortar board to Brooke, who returned the compliment. Guy led the way to the next row of stalls, where he pointed triumphantly at a white awning that read CUMC, founded 1904.

George slapped his friend on the back. He began to study a display of photographs showing past and present undergraduates standing on the Great St. Bernard Pass, and on the summits of Mont Velan and Monte Rosa. Another board on the far side of the table displayed a large photograph of Mont Blanc, on which was written the words Join us in Italy next year if you want to do it the hard way.

“How do I join?” George asked a short, stocky fellow standing next to a taller man who was holding an ice axe.

“You can’t join the Mountaineering Club, old chap,” he replied. “You have to be elected.”

“Then how do I get elected?”

“It’s quite simple. You sign up for one of our Club meets to Pen-y-Pass, and then we’ll decide if you’re a mountaineer or just a weekend rambler.”