“Hullo, you chaps,” said Stanning.
The members of the senior day-room made no reply, but continued, as Mr. Kipling has it, to persecute their vocations. Most of them were brewing. They went on brewing with the earnest concentration of chefs.
“You’re a cheery lot,” said Stanning. “But I don’t wonder you’ve got the hump. I should be a bit sick if we’d got a skunk like that in our house. Heard the latest?”
Some lunatic said, “No. What?” thereby delivering the day-room bound into the hands of the enemy.
“Sheen’s apologised to Attell.”
There was a sensation in the senior day-room, as Stanning had expected. He knew his men. He was perfectly aware that any story which centred round Sheen’s cowardice would be believed by them, so he had not troubled to invent a lie which it would be difficult to disprove. He knew that in the present state of feeling in the house Sheen would not be given a hearing.
“No!” shouted the senior day-room.
This was the last straw. The fellow seemed to go out of his way to lower the prestige of the house.
“Fact,” said Stanning. “I thought you knew.”
He continued to sit on the table, swinging his legs, while the full horror of his story sunk into the senior day-room mind.
“I wonder you don’t do something about it. Why don’t you touch him up? He’s not a prefect.”
But they were not prepared to go to that length. The senior day-room had a great respect both for Drummond’s word and his skill with his hands. He had said he would slay anyone who touched Sheen, and they were of opinion that he would do it.
“He isn’t in,” said one of the brewers, looking up from his toasting-fork. “His study door was open when I passed.”
“I say, why not rag his study?” suggested another thickly, through a mouthful of toast.
Stanning smiled.
“Good idea,” he said.
It struck him that some small upheaval of Sheen’s study furniture, coupled with the burning of one or two books, might check to some extent that student’s work for the Gotford. And if Sheen could be stopped working for the Gotford, he, Stanning, would romp home. In the matter of brilliance there was no comparison between them. It was Sheen’s painful habit of work which made him dangerous.
Linton had been listening to this conversation in silence. He had come to the senior day-room to borrow a book. He now slipped out, and made his way to Drummond’s study.
Drummond was in. Linton proceeded to business.
“I say, Drummond.”
“Hullo?”
“That man Stanning has come in. He’s getting the senior day-room to rag Sheen’s study.”
“What!”
Linton repeated his statement.
“Does the man think he owns the house?” said Drummond. “Where is he?”
“Coming up now. I hear them. What are you going to do? Stop them?”
“What do you think? Of course I am. I’m not going to have any of Appleby’s crew coming into Seymour’s and ragging studies.”
“This ought to be worth seeing,” said Linton. “Look on me as ‘Charles, his friend.’ I’ll help if you want me, but it’s your scene.”
Drummond opened his door just as Stanning and his myrmidons were passing it.
“Hullo, Stanning,” he said.
Stanning turned. The punitive expedition stopped.
“Do you want anything?” inquired Drummond politely.
The members of the senior day-room who were with Stanning rallied round, silent and interested. This dramatic situation appealed to them. They had a passion for rows, and this looked distinctly promising.
There was a pause. Stanning looked carefully at Drummond. Drummond looked carefully at Stanning.
“I was going to see Sheen,” said Stanning at length.
“He isn’t in.”
“Oh!”
Another pause.
“Was it anything special?” inquired Drummond pleasantly.
The expedition edged a little forward.
“No. Oh, no. Nothing special,” said Stanning.
The expedition looked disappointed.
“Any message I can give him?” asked Drummond.
“No, thanks,” said Stanning.
“Sure?”
“Quite, thanks.”
“I don’t think it’s worthwhile your waiting. He may not be in for some time.”
“No, perhaps not. Thanks. So long.”
“So long.”
Stanning turned on his heel, and walked away down the passage. Drummond went back into his study, and shut the door.
The expedition, deprived of its commander-in-chief, paused irresolutely outside. Then it followed its leader’s example.
There was peace in the passage.
XV
The Rout at Ripton
On the Saturday following this episode, the first fifteen travelled to Ripton to play the return match with that school on its own ground. Of the two Ripton matches, the one played at Wrykyn was always the big event of the football year; but the other came next in importance, and the telegram which was despatched to the school shop at the close of the game was always awaited with anxiety. This year Wrykyn looked forward to the return match with a certain amount of apathy, due partly to the fact that the school was in a slack, unpatriotic state, and partly to the hammering the team had received in the previous term, when the Ripton centre three-quarters had run through and scored with monotonous regularity. “We’re bound to get sat on,” was the general verdict of the school.
Allardyce, while thoroughly agreeing with this opinion, did his best to conceal the fact from the rest of the team. He had certainly done his duty by them. Every day for the past fortnight the forwards and outsides had turned out to run and pass, and on the Saturdays there had been matches with Corpus, Oxford, and the Cambridge Old Wrykinians. In both games the school had been beaten. In fact, it seemed as if they could only perform really well when they had no opponents. To see the three-quarters racing down the field (at practice) and scoring innumerable (imaginary) tries, one was apt to be misled into considering them a fine quartette. But when there was a match, all the beautiful dash and precision of the passing faded away, and the last thing they did was to run straight. Barry was the only one of the four who played the game properly.
But, as regarded
