“Let’s know when Eckleton’s playing Haileybury, and I’ll come and look you up. I want to see that match.”
“All right.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Tom.”
“Goodbye, Tom, dear.”
Chorus of aunts and other supers: “Goodbye, Tom.”
Tom (comprehensively): “G’bye.”
The train left the station.
Kennedy, the head of Dencroft’s, said that when he wanted his study turned into a beastly furnace, he would take care to let Spencer know. He pointed out that just because it was his habit to warm the study during the winter months, there was no reason why Spencer should light the gas stove on an afternoon in the summer term when the thermometer was in the eighties. Spencer thought he might want some muffins cooked for tea, did he? Kennedy earnestly advised Spencer to give up thinking, as Nature had not equipped him for the strain. Thinking necessitated mental effort, and Spencer, in Kennedy’s opinion, had no mind, but rubbed along on a cheap substitute of mud and putty.
More chatty remarks were exchanged, and then Spencer tore himself away from the pleasant interview, and went downstairs to the junior study, where he remarked to his friend Phipps that Life was getting a bit thick.
“What’s up now?” inquired Phipps.
“Everything. We’ve just had a week of term, and I’ve been in extra once already for doing practically nothing, and I’ve got a hundred lines, and Kennedy’s been slanging me for lighting the stove. How was I to know he didn’t want it lit? Wish I was fagging for somebody else.”
“All the while you’re jawing,” said Phipps, “there’s a letter for you on the mantelpiece, staring at you?”
“So there is. Hullo!”
“What’s up? Hullo! is that a postal order? How much for?”
“Five bob. I say, who’s Shearne?”
“New kid in Blackburn’s. Why?”
“Great Scott! I remember now. They told me to look after him. I haven’t seen him yet. And listen to this: ‘Mrs. Shearne has sent me the enclosed to give to you. Her son writes to say that he is very happy and getting on very well, so she is sure you must have been looking after him.’ Why, I don’t know the kid by sight. I clean forgot all about him.”
“Well, you’d better go and see him now, just to say you’ve done it.”
Spencer perpended.
“Beastly nuisance having a new kid hanging on to you. He’s probably a frightful rotter.”
“Well, anyway, you ought to,” said Phipps, who possessed the scenario of a conscience.
“I can’t.”
“All right, don’t, then. But you ought to send back that postal order.”
“Look here, Phipps,” said Spencer plaintively, “you needn’t be an idiot, you know.”
And the trivial matter of Thomas B. A. Shearne was shelved.
Thomas, as he had stated in his letter to his mother, was exceedingly happy at Eckleton, and getting on very nicely indeed. It is true that there had been one or two small unpleasantnesses at first, but those were over now, and he had settled down completely. The little troubles alluded to above had begun on his second day at Blackburn’s. Thomas, as the reader may have gathered from his glimpse of him at the station, was not a diffident youth. He was quite prepared for anything Fate might have up its sleeve for him, and he entered the junior day-room at Blackburn’s ready for emergencies. On the first day nothing happened. One or two people asked him his name, but none inquired what his father was—a question which, he had understood from books of school life, was invariably put to the new boy. He was thus prevented from replying “coolly, with his eyes fixed on his questioner’s”: “A gentleman. What’s yours?” and this, of course, had been a disappointment. But he reconciled himself to it, and on the whole enjoyed his first day at Eckleton.
On the second there occurred an Episode.
Thomas had inherited from his mother a pleasant, rather meek cast of countenance. He had pink cheeks and golden hair—almost indecently golden in one who was not a choirboy.
Now, if you are going to look like a Ministering Child or a Little Willie, the Sunbeam of the Home, when you go to a public school, you must take the consequences. As Thomas sat by the window of the junior day-room reading a magazine, and deeply interested in it, there fell upon his face such a rapt, angelic expression that the sight of it, silhouetted against the window, roused Master P. Burge, his fellow-Blackburnite, as it had been a trumpet-blast. To seize a Bradley Arnold’s Latin Prose Exercises and hurl it across the room was with Master Burge the work of a moment. It struck Thomas on the ear. He jumped, and turned some shades pinker. Then he put down his magazine, picked up the Bradley Arnold, and sat on it. After which he resumed his magazine.
The acute interest of the junior day-room, always fond of a break in the monotony of things, induced Burge to go further into the matter.
“You with the face!” said Burge rudely.
Thomas looked up.
“What the dickens are you going with my book? Pass it back!”
“Oh, is this yours?” said Thomas. “Here you are.”
He walked towards him, carrying the book. At two yards range he fired it in. It hit Burge with some force in the waistcoat, and there was a pause while he collected his wind.
Then the thing may be said to have begun.
Yes, said Burge, interrogated on the point five minutes later, he had had enough.
“Good,” said Thomas pleasantly. “Want a handkerchief?”
That evening he wrote to his mother and, thanking her for kind inquiries, stated that he was not being bullied. He added, also in answer to inquiries, that he had not been tossed in a blanket, and that—so far—no Hulking Senior (with scowl) had let him down from the dormitory window after midnight by a sheet, in order that he might procure gin from the local public-house. As far as he could gather, the seniors were mostly teetotallers. Yes, he had seen Spencer several times. He did not add that he had seen him from a distance.
“I’m so glad I asked Mrs. Davy
