“Do you read Browning, Mr. MacArthur?” she would say suddenly, having apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full.
The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say—
“No, not much.”
“Ah!” This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.
“When you say ‘not much,’ Mr. MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have you read any of his poems?”
“Oh, yes, one or two.”
“Ah! Have you read ‘Pippa Passes’?”
“No, I think not.”
“Surely you must know, Mr. MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you read ‘Fifine at the Fair’?”
“No.”
“Have you read ‘Sordello’?”
“No.”
“What have you read, Mr. MacArthur?”
Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe’s subsequent share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further onslaught, was not large.
One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost swooned. The lady’s steady and critical inspection of his style of carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name of “study-gorges,” where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled.
But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out “Fore!” or something to that effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe reseated himself in an overwrought state.
“Tell me about St. Austin’s, Mr. MacArthur,” said Miss Beezley, as the Babe was trying to think of something to say—not about the weather. “Do you play football?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
A prolonged silence.
“Do you—” began the Babe at last.
“Tell me—” began Miss Beezley, simultaneously.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Babe; “you were saying—?”
“Not at all, Mr. MacArthur. You were saying—?”
“I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?”
“Yes; do you?”
“No.”
“Ah!”
“If this is going to continue,” thought the Babe, “I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit suicide.”
There was another long pause.
“Tell me the names of some of the masters at St. Austin’s, Mr. MacArthur,” said Miss Beezley. She habitually spoke as if she were an examination paper, and her manner might have seemed to some to verge upon the autocratic, but the Babe was too thankful that the question was not on Browning or the higher algebra to notice this. He reeled off a list of names.
“… Then there’s Merevale—rather a decent sort—and Dacre.”
“What sort of a man is Mr. Dacre?”
“Rather a rotter, I think.”
“What is a rotter, Mr. MacArthur?”
“Well, I don’t know how to describe it exactly. He doesn’t play cricket or anything. He’s generally considered rather a crock.”
“Really! This is very interesting, Mr. MacArthur. And what is a crock? I suppose what it comes to,” she added, as the Babe did his best to find a definition, “is this, that you yourself dislike him.” The Babe admitted the impeachment. Mr. Dacre had a finished gift of sarcasm which had made him writhe on several occasions, and sarcastic masters are rarely very popular.
“Ah!” said Miss Beezley. She made frequent use of that monosyllable. It generally gave the Babe the same sort of feeling as he had been accustomed to experience in the happy days of his childhood when he had been caught stealing jam.
Miss Beezley went at last, and the Babe felt like a convict who has just received a free pardon.
One afternoon in the following term he was playing fives with Charteris, a prefect in Merevale’s House. Charteris was remarkable from the fact that he edited and published at his own expense an unofficial and highly personal paper, called The Glow Worm, which was a great deal more in demand than the recognized School magazine, The Austinian, and always paid its expenses handsomely.
Charteris had the journalistic taint very badly. He was always the first to get wind of any piece of School news. On this occasion he was in possession of an exclusive item. The Babe was the first person to whom he communicated it.
“Have you heard the latest romance in high life, Babe?” he observed, as they were leaving the court. “But of course you haven’t. You never do hear anything.”
“Well?” asked the Babe, patiently.
“You know Dacre?”
“I seem to have heard the name somewhere.”
“He’s going to be married.”
“Yes. Don’t trouble to try and look interested. You’re one of those offensive people who mind their own business and nobody else’s. Only I thought I’d tell you. Then you’ll have a remote chance of understanding my quips on the subject in next week’s Glow Worm. You laddies frae the north have to be carefully prepared for the subtler flights of wit.”
“Thanks,” said the Babe, placidly. “Good night.”
The Headmaster intercepted the Babe a few days after he was going home after a scratch game of football. “MacArthur,” said he, “you pass Mr. Dacre’s House, do you not, on your way home? Then would you mind asking him from me to take preparation
