“Babe knows.”
The Babe turned to the company and explained.
“The lunatic’s going in for the strangers’ mile at some sports at Rutton next week. He’ll get booked for a cert. He can’t see that. I never saw such a man.”
“Rally round,” said Charteris, “and reason with me. I’ll listen. Tony, what do you think about it?”
Tony expressed his opinion tersely, and Charteris thanked him. Welch, who had been reading, now awoke to the fact that a discussion was in progress, and asked for details. The Babe explained once more, and Welch heartily corroborated Tony’s remarks. Charteris thanked him too.
“You aren’t really going, are you?” asked Welch.
“Rather,” said Charteris.
“The Old Man won’t give you leave.”
“Shan’t worry the poor man with such trifles.”
“But it’s miles out of bounds. Stapleton station is out of bounds to start with. It’s against rules to go in a train, and Rutton’s even more out of bounds than Stapleton.”
“And as there are sports there,” said Tony, “the Old Man is certain to put Rutton specially out of bounds for that day. He always bars a St. Austin’s chap going to a place when there’s anything going on there.”
“I don’t care. What have I to do with the Old Man’s petty prejudices? Now, let me get at my timetable. Here we are. Now then.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Tony,
“Certainly not. Look here, there’s a train starts from Stapleton at three. I can catch that all right. Gets to Rutton at three-twenty. Sports begin at three-fifteen. At least, they are supposed to. Over before five, I should think. At least, my race will be, though I must stop to see the Oldest Inhabitant’s nevvy win the egg and spoon canter. But that ought to come on before the strangers’ race. Train back at a quarter past five. Arrives at a quarter to six. Lock up six-fifteen. That gives me half an hour to get here from Stapleton. What more do you want? I shall do it easily, and … the odds against my being booked are about twenty-five to one. At which price if any gent present cares to deposit his money, I am willing to take him. Now I’ll treat you to a tune, if you’re good.”
He went to the cupboard and produced his gramophone. Charteris’s musical instruments had at one time been strictly suppressed by the authorities, and, in consequence, he had laid in a considerable stock of them. At last, when he discovered that there was no rule against the use of musical instruments in the House, Merevale had yielded. The stipulation that Charteris should play only before prep was rigidly observed, except when Merevale was over at the Hall, and the Sixth had no work. On such occasions Charteris felt justified in breaking through the rule. He had a gramophone, a banjo, a penny whistle, and a mouth organ. The banjo, which he played really well, was the most in request, but the gramophone was also popular.
“Turn on ‘Whistling Rufus,’ ” observed Thomson.
“Whistling Rufus” was duly turned on, giving way after an encore to “Bluebells.”
“I always weep when I hear this,” said Tony.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Charteris.
I’ll be your sweetheart, if you—will be—mine,
All my life, I’ll be your valentine.
Bluebells I’ve gathered—grrhhrh.
The needle of the gramophone, after the manner of its kind, slipped raspingly over the surface of the wax, and the rest of the ballad was lost.
“That,” said Charteris, “is how I feel with regard to the Old Man. I’d be his sweetheart, if he’d be mine. But he makes no advances, and the stain on my scutcheon is not yet wiped out. I must say I haven’t tried gathering bluebells for him yet, nor have I offered my services as a perpetual valentine, but I’ve been very kind to him in other ways.”
“Is he still down on you?” asked the Babe.
“He hasn’t done much lately. We’re in a state of truce at present. Did I tell you how I scored about Stapleton?”
“You’ve only told us about a hundred times,” said the Babe brutally. “I tell you what, though, he’ll score off you if he finds you going to Rutton.”
“Let’s hope he won’t.”
“He won’t,” said Welch suddenly.
“Why?”
“Because you won’t go. I’ll bet you anything you like that you won’t go.”
That settled Charteris. It was the sort of remark that always acted on him like a tonic. He had been intending to go all the time, but it was this speech of Welch’s that definitely clinched the matter. One of his mottoes for everyday use was “Let not thyself be scored off by Welch.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Of course I shall go. What’s the next item you’d like on this machine?”
The day of the sports arrived, and the Babe, meeting Charteris at Merevale’s gate, made a last attempt to head him off from his purpose.
“How are you going to take your things?” he asked. “You can’t carry a bag. The first beak you met would ask questions.”
If he had hoped that this would be a crushing argument, he was disappointed.
Charteris patted a bloated coat pocket.
“Bags,” he said laconically. “Vest,” he added, doing the same to his other pocket. “Shoes,” he concluded, “you will observe I am carrying in a handy brown paper parcel, and if anybody wants to know what’s in it, I shall tell them it’s acid drops. Sure you won’t come, too?”
“Quite, thanks.”
“All right. So long then. Be good while I’m gone.”
And he passed on down the road that led to Stapleton.
The Rutton Recreation Ground presented, as the Stapleton Herald justly remarked in its next week’s issue, “a gay and animated appearance.” There was a larger crowd than Charteris had expected. He made his way through them, resisting without difficulty the entreaties of a hoarse gentleman in a check suit to have three to two on ’Enery something for the hundred yards, and came at last to the dressing-tent.
At this point it occurred to him that it would be judicious to find out when his race was to start. It was
