“Only drawback is,” said his eldest brother gloomily—“won’t get cheek knocked out of him. Tom’s kid wh’ought get’sheadsmacked reg’ly. Be no holding him.”
And he helped himself to marmalade, of which delicacy his mouth was full, with a sort of magnificent despondency.
By the end of the first fortnight of his school career, Thomas Beauchamp Algernon had overcome all the little ruggednesses which relieve the path of the new boy from monotony. He had been taken in by a primeval “sell” which the junior day-room invariably sprang on the newcomer. But as he had sat on the head of the engineer of the same for the space of ten minutes, despite the latter’s complaints of pain and forecasts of what he would do when he got up, the laugh had not been completely against him. He had received the honourable distinction of extra lesson for ragging in French. He had been “touched up” by the prefect of his dormitory for creating a disturbance in the small hours. In fact, he had gone through all the usual preliminaries, and become a full-blown Eckletonian.
His letters home were so cheerful at this point that a second postal order relieved the dwindling fortune of Spencer. And it was this, coupled with the remonstrances of Phipps, that induced the Dencroftian to break through his icy reserve.
“Look here, Spencer,” said Phipps, his conscience thoroughly stirred by this second windfall, “it’s all rot. You must either send back that postal order, or go and see the chap. Besides, he’s quite a decent kid. We’re in the same game at cricket. He’s rather a good bowler. I’m getting to know him quite well. I’ve got a jolly sight more right to those postal orders than you have.”
“But he’s an awful ass to look at,” pleaded Spencer.
“What’s wrong with him? Doesn’t look nearly such a goat as you,” said Phipps, with the refreshing directness of youth.
“He’s got yellow hair,” argued Spencer.
“Why shouldn’t he have?”
“He looks like a sort of young Sunday-school kid.”
“Well, he jolly well isn’t, then, because I happen to know that he’s had scraps with some of the fellows in his house, and simply mopped them.”
“Well, all right, then,” said Spencer reluctantly.
The historic meeting took place outside the school shop at the quarter to eleven interval next morning. Thomas was leaning against the wall, eating a bun. Spencer approached him with half a jam sandwich in his hand. There was an awkward pause.
“Hullo!” said Spencer at last.
“Hullo!” said Thomas.
Spencer finished his sandwich and brushed the crumbs off his trousers. Thomas continued operations on the bun with the concentrated expression of a lunching python.
“I believe your people know my people,” said Spencer.
“We have some awfully swell friends,” said Thomas. Spencer chewed this thoughtfully awhile.
“Beastly cheek,” he said at last.
“Sorry,” said Thomas, not looking it.
Spencer produced a bag of gelatines.
“Have one?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with ’em?”
“All right, don’t.”
He selected a gelatine and consumed it.
“Ever had your head smacked?” he inquired courteously.
A slightly strained look came into Thomas’s blue eyes.
“Not often,” he replied politely. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Spencer. “I was only wondering.”
“Oh?”
“Look here,” said Spencer, “my mater told me to look after you.”
“Well, you can look after me now if you want to, because I’m going.”
And Thomas dissolved the meeting by walking off in the direction of the junior block.
“That kid,” said Spencer to his immortal soul, “wants his head smacked, badly.”
At lunch Phipps had questions to ask.
“Saw you talking to Shearne in the interval,” he said. “What were you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Little idiot.”
“Ask him to tea this afternoon?”
“No.”
“You must. Dash it all, you must do something for him. You’ve had ten bob out of his people.”
Spencer made no reply.
Going to the school shop that afternoon, he found Thomas seated there with Phipps, behind a pot of tea. As a rule, he and Phipps tea’d together, and he resented this desertion.
“Come on,” said Phipps. “We were waiting for you.”
“Pining away,” added Thomas unnecessarily.
Spencer frowned austerely.
“Come and look after me,” urged Thomas.
Spencer sat down in silence. For a minute no sound could be heard but the champing of Thomas’s jaws as he dealt with a slab of gingerbread.
“Buck up,” said Phipps uneasily.
“Give me,” said Thomas, “just one loving look.”
Spencer ignored the request. The silence became tense once more.
“Coming to the house net, Phipps?” asked Spencer.
“We were going to the baths. Why don’t you come?”
“All right,” said Spencer.
Doctors tell us that we should allow one hour to elapse between taking food and bathing, but the rule was not rigidly adhered to at Eckleton. The three proceeded straight from the tea-table to the baths.
The place was rather empty when they arrived. It was a little earlier than the majority of Eckletonians bathed. The bath filled up as lockup drew near. With the exception of a couple of infants splashing about in the shallow end, and a stout youth who dived in from the springboard, scrambled out, and dived in again, each time flatter than the last, they had the place to themselves.
“What’s it like, Gorrick,” inquired Phipps of the stout youth, who had just appeared above the surface again, blowing like a whale. The question was rendered necessary by the fact that many years before the boiler at the Eckleton baths had burst, and had never been repaired, with the consequence that the temperature of the water was apt to vary. That is to say, most days it was colder than others.
“Simply boiling,” said the man of weight, climbing out. “I say, did I go in all right then?”
“Not bad,” said Phipps.
“Bit flat,” added Thomas critically.
Gorrick blinked severely at the speaker. A headwaiter at a fashionable restaurant is cordial in his manner compared with a boy who has been at a public school a year, when addressed familiarly by a new boy. After
