“If you’ll kindly explain,” said Smythe, “what the dickens you are talking about, I might be able to tell you.”
Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that “it” meant the Livy examination.
“Oh,” said Smythe, airily, “that! I’m just going to skim through it in case I’ve forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notes carefully. And then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the history of the period. I should advise you to do that, too.”
“Oh, don’t be a goat,” said Pillingshot.
And he retired, brooding, as before.
That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of The Aeneid. At the beginning of the week he had had a slight disagreement with M. Gerard, the French master.
Pillingshot’s views on behaviour and deportment during French lessons did not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot’s idea of a French lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum at football. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in the process of “barging” the end man off the edge of the form into space, and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a very undeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on the thing happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extra lesson on the ensuing Wednesday.
So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil.
He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As he came out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebody being carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. At the same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards the School shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression of one who sees much ginger-beer in the near future.
“Hullo, Parker,” said Pillingshot, “who’s the corpse?”
“What, haven’t you heard?” said Parker. “Oh, no, of course, you were in extra. It’s young Brown. He’s stunned or something.”
“How did it happen?”
“That rotter, Babington, in Dacre’s. Simply slamming about, you know, getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one of his drives. Got him on the side of the head.”
“Much hurt?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.”
“Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Come and hit me on the head, Parker.”
“Come and have an ice,” said Parker.
“Right-ho,” said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, that whatever the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal to consuming an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinite capacity for taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised ice when another misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven, entered the shop. Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind to certain flaws in the latter’s character. For one thing, he was too energetic. For another, he could not keep his energy to himself. He was always making Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot’s notion of the ideal life was complete dolce far niente.
“Ginger-beer, please,” said Scott, with parched lips. He had been bowling at the nets, and the day was hot. “Hullo! Pillingshot, you young slacker, why aren’t you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games? You’d better reform, young man.”
“I’ve been in extra,” said Pillingshot, with dignity.
“How many times does that make this term? You’re going for the record, aren’t you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn’t it? ’Nother ginger-beer, please.”
“Just a bit,” said Pillingshot.
“I thought so. And now you’re dying for some excitement. Of course you are. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back and field at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of his celebrated slow tosh, and I’m going to show him exactly how Jessop does it when he’s in form.”
Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr. Yorke was one of the masters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops. Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in the deep with Mr. Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contribute largely to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meant that you stood in the middle of the football field, where there was no telling what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If you were lucky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ball bumped and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height to which it rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself.
“Don’t talk rot,” said Scott, complainingly, “you must have some exercise or you’ll go getting fat. Think what a blow it would be to your family, Pillingshot, if you lost your figure. Buck up. If you’re back here in a quarter of an hour you shall have another ice. A large ice, Pillingshot, price sixpence. Think of it.”
The word ice, as has been remarked before, touched chords in Pillingshot’s nature to which he never turned a deaf ear. Within the prescribed quarter of an hour he was back again, changed.
“Here’s the ice,” said Scott, “I’ve been keeping it warm for you. Shovel it down. I want to be starting for the nets. Quicker, man, quicker! Don’t roll it round your tongue as if it was port. Go for it. Finished? That’s right. Come on.”
Pillingshot had not finished, but Scott so evidently believed that he had, that it would have been unkind to have mentioned the fact. He followed the smiter to the nets.
If Pillingshot had passed the earlier part of the afternoon in a sedentary fashion, he made up for it now. Scott was in rare form, and Pillingshot noticed with no small interest that, while he invariably hit Mr. Yorke’s deliveries a quarter of a mile or so, he never hit two balls in succession in the same direction. As soon as the panting fieldsman had sprinted to one side of
