These few fine days of mid-September went quickly by and one evening Rodber said casually, almost cruelly it seemed to Michael:
“Well, see you tomorrow in the break, young Fane.”
Michael wondered what on earth a “break” was; he longed to ask Rodber, but he dared not display at the very beginning of his career what would evidently be a disgraceful ignorance, and so he said that he would see Rodber in the “break” tomorrow. He asked Miss Carthew when he got home what a “break” was, and she told him it was a large wagonette sometimes driven by four horses. Michael was very much puzzled, but thought school would be fun if large wagonettes were commonplace objects of school life, and dreamed that night of driving furiously with Rodber in a gigantic mail-cart along the Hammersmith Road.
At breakfast Miss Carthew asked Michael if he would like her to come with him. He thought for a moment, and wished that Rodber had invited him to accompany him that first morning.
“You know, it’s for you to choose, Michael,” said Miss Carthew.
“Well, I would like you to come,” said Michael at last.
So at ten minutes past nine they set out. All sorts of boys were going to school along the Hammersmith Road, boys of every size carrying satchels or bags or loose bundles of books. Most of them wore the Jacobean cap, and Michael eyed them with awe; but many wore the cap of St. James’ Preparatory School, and these Michael eyed with curiosity as well as awe. He spoke very little during the walk and felt all the way a sinking of the heart. When actually he reached the gate of Randell House, the less formal appellation of St. James’ Preparatory School, he longed to turn back with Miss Carthew, as he thought with sentimental pangs of the pleasant schoolroom and of Stella sitting by Miss Carthew, learning to read through a sunlit morning.
“Don’t come in with me,” he whispered.
“Quite right,” said Miss Carthew approvingly. “Much better without me.”
“And don’t wave, will you?” he begged. Then with an effort he joined the stream of boys walking confidently through the big gate.
In the entrance hall a ginger-haired foxy-faced man in a green uniform said sharply:
“New boy?”
Michael nodded.
“Stand on one side, please. Mr. Randell will see you presently.”
Michael waited. He noticed with pride that the boy next to him had brought with him either his mother or his sister or his governess. Michael felt very superior and was glad he had resisted the temptation to ask Miss Carthew to come in with him. He noticed how curiously the other boys eyed this lady and fancied that they threw contemptuous glances at the boy who had introduced her. Michael was very glad indeed that he had let Miss Carthew turn back.
VII
Randell House
The preliminaries of Michael’s career at St. James’ Preparatory School passed in a dreamlike confusion of thought and action. First of all he waited anxiously in the Headmaster’s study in an atmosphere of morocco-leather and large waste-paper baskets. Like every other room in which Michael had waited, whether of dentist or doctor, the outlook from the window was gloomy and the prospect within was depressing. He was glad when Mr. Randell led him and several other boys towards the First Form, where in a dream, peopled by the swinging legs of many boys, he learnt from a scarlet book that while Cornelia loved Julia, Julia returned Cornelia’s affection. When this fact was established in both English and Latin, all the boys shuffled to their desks and the record of a great affection was set down largely and painfully.
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Cornelia Juliam amat.
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Julia Corneliam amat.
Blotted and smudged and sprawling though it ultimately appeared, Michael felt a great satisfaction in having dealt successfully with two nominatives, two accusatives and a verb. The first part of the morning passed away quickly in the history of this simple love. At eleven o’clock a shrill electric bell throbbed through the school, and Michael, almost before he knew what was happening, was carried in a torrent of boys towards the playground. Michael had never felt supreme loneliness, even at night, until he stood in the middle of that green prairie of recreation, distinguishing nobody, a very small creature in a throng of chattering giants. Some of these giants, who usually walked about arm in arm, approached him.
“Hullo, are you a new kid?”
Michael breathed his “yes.”
“What’s your name?”
With an effort Michael remembered Rodber’s warning and replied simply:
“Fane.”
“What’s your Christian name?”
This was a terribly direct attack, and Michael was wondering whether it would be best to run quickly out of the playground, to keep silence or to surrender the information, when the quick and authoritative voice of Rodber flashed from behind him.
“Fish and find out, young Biden.”
“Who are you calling young, young Rodber?”
“You,” said Rodber. “So you’d jolly well better scoot off and leave this kid alone.”
“Church said I was to collar all the new kids for his army,” Biden explained.
“Did he? Well, this kid’s in our army, so sucks! And you can tell young Church that Pearson and me are going to jolly well lam him at four o’clock,” announced Rodber very fiercely.
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” asked Biden, whose teeth seemed to project farther and farther from his mouth as his indignation grew.
“All right, Toothy Biden,” jeered Rodber. “We’ll tell the whole of your rotten army at four o’clock, when we give you the biggest lamming you’ve ever had. Come on, young Fane,” he went on, and Michael, somewhat perturbed by the prospect of being involved in these encounters, followed at his heels.
“Look here,” said Rodber presently, “you’d better come and show yourself to Pearson. He’s the captain of our army;
