“They’ve got about four men who might come off, but the M.C.C. sometimes have a bit of a tail. We ought to have a look in if we win the toss.”
“Hope so,” said Baker. “I doubt it, though.”
At a quarter to eleven the School always went out in a body to inspect the pitch. After the wicket had been described by experts in hushed whispers as looking pretty good, the bell rang, and all who were not playing for the team, with the exception of the lucky individual who had obtained for himself the post of scorer, strolled back towards the blocks. Monk had come out with Waterford, but seeing Farnie ahead and walking alone he quitted Waterford, and attached himself to the genial Reginald. He wanted to talk business. He had not found the speculation of the two pounds a very profitable one. He had advanced the money under the impression that Farnie, by accepting it, was practically selling his independence. And there were certain matters in which Monk was largely interested, connected with the breaking of bounds and the purchase of contraband goods, which he would have been exceedingly glad to have performed by deputy. He had fancied that Farnie would have taken over these jobs as part of his debt. But he had mistaken his man. On the very first occasion when he had attempted to put on the screw, Farnie had flatly refused to have anything to do with what he proposed. He said that he was not Monk’s fag—a remark which had the merit of being absolutely true.
All this, combined with a slight sinking of his own funds, induced Monk to take steps towards recovering the loan.
“I say, Farnie, old chap.”
“Hullo!”
“I say, do you remember my lending you two quid some time ago?”
“You don’t give me much chance of forgetting it,” said Farnie.
Monk smiled. He could afford to be generous towards such witticisms.
“I want it back,” he said.
“All right. You’ll get it at the end of term.”
“I want it now.”
“Why?”
“Awfully hard up, old chap.”
“You aren’t,” said Farnie. “You’ve got three pounds twelve and sixpence halfpenny. If you will keep counting your money in public, you can’t blame a chap for knowing how much you’ve got.”
Monk, slightly disconcerted, changed his plan of action. He abandoned skirmishing tactics.
“Never mind that,” he said, “the point is that I want that four pounds. I’m going to have it, too.”
“I know. At the end of term.”
“I’m going to have it now.”
“You can have a pound of it now.”
“Not enough.”
“I don’t see how you expect me to raise any more. If I could, do you think I should have borrowed it? You might chuck rotting for a change.”
“Now, look here, old chap,” said Monk, “I should think you’d rather raise that tin somehow than have it get about that you’d been playing pills at some pub out of bounds. What?”
Farnie, for one of the few occasions on record, was shaken out of his usual sangfroid. Even in his easy code of morality there had always been one crime which was an anathema, the sort of thing no fellow could think of doing. But it was obviously at this that Monk was hinting.
“Good Lord, man,” he cried, “you don’t mean to say you’re thinking of sneaking? Why, the fellows would boot you round the field. You couldn’t stay in the place a week.”
“There are heaps of ways,” said Monk, “in which a thing can get about without anyone actually telling the beaks. At present I’ve not told a soul. But, you know, if I let it out to anyone they might tell someone else, and so on. And if everybody knows a thing, the beaks generally get hold of it sooner or later. You’d much better let me have that four quid, old chap.”
Farnie capitulated.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll get it somehow.”
“Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Monk, “so long!”
In all Beckford there was only one person who was in the least degree likely to combine the two qualities necessary for the extraction of Farnie from his difficulties. These qualities were—in the first place ability, in the second place willingness to advance him, free of security, the four pounds he required. The person whom he had in his mind was Gethryn. He had reasoned the matter out step by step during the second half of morning school. Gethryn, though he had, as Farnie knew, no overwhelming amount of affection for his uncle, might in a case of great need prove blood to be thicker (as per advertisement) than water. But, he reflected, he must represent himself as in danger of expulsion rather than flogging. He had an uneasy idea that if the Bishop were to discover that all he stood to get was a flogging, he would remark with enthusiasm that, as far as he was concerned, the good work might go on. Expulsion was different. To save a member of his family from expulsion, he might think it worth while to pass round the hat amongst his wealthy acquaintances. If four plutocrats with four sovereigns were to combine, Farnie, by their united efforts, would be saved. And he rather liked the notion of being turned into a sort of limited liability company, like the Duke of Plaza Toro, at a pound a share. It seemed to add a certain dignity to his position.
To Gethryn’s study, therefore, he went directly school was over. If he had reflected, he might have known that he would not have been there while the match was going on. But his brain, fatigued with his recent calculations, had not noted this point.
The study was empty.
Most people, on finding themselves in a strange and empty room, are seized with a desire to explore the same, and observe from internal evidence what manner of man is the owner. Nowhere does character come out so clearly as in the decoration of one’s private den. Many a man, at present respected by his associates, would stand forth unmasked at his true
