The Bishop’s study, which Farnie now proceeded to inspect, was not of this kind. It was a neat study, arranged with not a little taste. There were photographs of teams with the College arms on their plain oak frames, and photographs of relations in frames which tried to look, and for the most part succeeded in looking, as if they had not cost fourpence three farthings at a Christmas bargain sale. There were snapshots of various moving incidents in the careers of the Bishop and his friends: Marriott, for example, as he appeared when carried to the Pavilion after that sensational century against the Authentics: Robertson of Blaker’s winning the quarter mile: John Brown, Norris’s predecessor in the captaincy, and one of the four best batsmen Beckford had ever had, batting at the nets: Norris taking a skier on the boundary in last year’s M.C.C. match: the Bishop himself going out to bat in the Charchester match, and many more of the same sort.
All these Farnie observed with considerable interest, but as he moved towards the bookshelf his eye was caught by an object more interesting still. It was a cashbox, simple and unornamental, but undoubtedly a cashbox, and as he took it up it rattled.
The key was in the lock. In a boarding House at a public school it is not, as a general rule, absolutely necessary to keep one’s valuables always hermetically sealed. The difference between meum and tuum is so very rarely confused by the occupants of such an establishment, that one is apt to grow careless, and every now and then accidents happen. An accident was about to happen now.
It was at first without any motive except curiosity that Farnie opened the cashbox. He merely wished to see how much there was inside, with a view to ascertaining what his prospects of negotiating a loan with his relative were likely to be. When, however, he did see, other feelings began to take the place of curiosity. He counted the money. There were ten sovereigns, one half-sovereign, and a good deal of silver. One of the institutions at Beckford was a mission. The School by (more or less) voluntary contributions supported a species of home somewhere in the wilds of Kennington. No one knew exactly what or where this home was, but all paid their subscriptions as soon as possible in the term, and tried to forget about it. Gethryn collected not only for Leicester’s House, but also for the Sixth Form, and was consequently, if only by proxy, a man of large means. Too large, Farnie thought. Surely four pounds, to be paid back (probably) almost at once, would not be missed. Why shouldn’t he—
“Hullo!”
Farnie spun round. Wilson was standing in the doorway.
“Hullo, Farnie,” said he, “what are you playing at in here?”
“What are you?” retorted Farnie politely.
“Come to fetch a book. Marriott said I might. What are you up to?”
“Oh, shut up!” said Farnie. “Why shouldn’t I come here if I like? Matter of fact, I came to see Gethryn.”
“He isn’t here,” said Wilson luminously.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve noticed that already? You’ve got an eye like a hawk, Wilson. I was just taking a look round, if you really want to know.”
“Well, I shouldn’t advise you to let Marriott catch you mucking his study up. Seen a book called Round the Red Lamp? Oh, here it is. Coming over to the field?”
“Not just yet. I want to have another look round. Don’t you wait, though.”
“Oh, all right.” And Wilson retired with his book.
Now, though Wilson at present suspected nothing, not knowing of the existence of the cashbox, Farnie felt that when the money came to be missed, and inquiries were made as to who had been in the study, and when, he would recall the interview. Two courses, therefore, remained open to him. He could leave the money altogether, or he could take it and leave himself. In other words, run away.
In the first case there would, of course, remain the chance that he might induce Gethryn to lend him the four pounds, but this had never been more than a forlorn hope; and in the light of the possibilities opened out by the cashbox, he thought no more of it. The real problem was, should he or should he not take the money from the cashbox?
As he hesitated, the recollection of Monk’s veiled threats came back to him, and he wavered no longer. He opened the box again, took out the contents, and dropped them into his pocket. While he was about it, he thought he might as well take all as only a part.
Then he wrote two notes. One—to the Bishop—he placed on top of the cashbox; the other he placed with four sovereigns on the table in Monk’s study. Finally he left the room, shut the door carefully behind him, and went to the yard at the back of the House, where he kept his bicycle.
The workings of the human mind, and especially of the young human mind, are peculiar. It never occurred to Farnie that a result equally profitable to himself, and decidedly more convenient for all concerned—with the possible exception of Monk—might have been arrived at if he had simply left the money in the box, and run away without it.
However, as the poet says, you can’t think of everything.
VII
The Bishop Goes for a Ride
The M.C.C. match opened auspiciously. Norris, for the first time that season, won the toss. Tom Brown, we read, in a similar position, “with the usual liberality
