“Yes. They’ll be coming. There’s plenty of time, though, to think of that. What you’ve got to do for the present is to keep your mind glued on the death of Dido.”
“Rather,” said Pringle, “I won’t forget.”
This was at six twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the College clock-tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction, and Dido, her death, and everything connected with her, had faded from his mind like a beautiful dream.
XI
Poetry and Stump-Cricket
The Old Beckfordians’ match came off in due season, and Pringle enjoyed it thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings, he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the School had a hundred and twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first with Marriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the School a ten wickets victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form. He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J. R. Smith, whose fag he had been in the old days. When at School, Smith had always been singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found that much pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling. Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictly speaking, good for him, and did the honours at the study tea-party with the grace of a born host. And, as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer did ask what that silver-plate was stuck on to that bat for.
It is not to be wondered at that in the midst of these festivities such trivialities as Lorimer’s poem found no place in his thoughts. It was not until the following day that he was reminded of it.
That Sunday was a visiting Sunday. Visiting Sundays occurred three times a term, when everybody who had friends and relations in the neighbourhood was allowed to spend the day with them. Pringle on such occasions used to ride over to Biddlehampton, the scene of Farnie’s adventures, on somebody else’s bicycle, his destination being the residence of a certain Colonel Ashby, no relation, but a great friend of his father’s.
The gallant Colonel had, besides his other merits—which were numerous—the pleasant characteristic of leaving his guests to themselves. To be left to oneself under some circumstances is apt to be a drawback, but in this case there was never any lack of amusements. The only objection that Pringle ever found was that there was too much to do in the time. There was shooting, riding, fishing, and also stump-cricket. Given proper conditions, no game in existence yields to stump-cricket in the matter of excitement. A stable-yard makes the best pitch, for the walls stop all hits and you score solely by boundaries, one for every hit, two if it goes past the coach-room door, four to the end wall, and out if you send it over. It is perfect.
There were two junior Ashbys, twins, aged sixteen. They went to school at Charchester, returning to the ancestral home for the weekend. Sometimes when Pringle came they would bring a school friend, in which case Pringle and he would play the twins. But as a rule the programme consisted of a series of five test matches, Charchester versus Beckford; and as Pringle was almost exactly twice as good as each of the twins taken individually, when they combined it made the sides very even, and the test matches were fought out with the most deadly keenness.
After lunch the Colonel was in the habit of taking Pringle for a stroll in the grounds, to watch him smoke a cigar or two. On this Sunday the conversation during the walk, after beginning, as was right and proper, with cricket, turned to work.
“Let me see,” said the Colonel, as Pringle finished the description of how point had almost got to the square cut which had given him his century against Charchester, “you’re out of the Upper Fifth now, aren’t you? I always used to think you were going to be a fixture there. You are like your father in that way. I remember him at Rugby spending years on end in the same form. Couldn’t get out of it. But you did get your remove, if I remember?”
“Rather,” said Pringle, “years ago. That’s to say, last term. And I’m jolly glad I did, too.”
His errant memory had returned to the poetry prize once more.
“Oh,” said the Colonel, “why is that?”
Pringle explained the peculiar disadvantages that attended membership of the Upper Fifth during the summer term.
“I don’t think a man ought to be allowed to spend his money in these special prizes,” he concluded; “at any rate they ought to be Sixth Form affairs. It’s hard enough having to do the ordinary work and keep up your cricket at the same time.”
“They are compulsory then?”
“Yes. Swindle, I call it. The chap who shares my study at Beckford is in the Upper Fifth, and his hair’s turning white under the strain. The worst of it is, too, that I’ve promised to help him, and I never seem to have any time to give to the thing. I could turn out a great poem if I had an hour or two to spare now and then.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Death of Dido this year. They are always jolly keen on deaths. Last year it was Cato, and the year before Julius Caesar. They seem to have very morbid minds. I think they might try something cheerful for a change.”
“Dido,” said the Colonel dreamily. “Death of Dido. Where have I heard either a story or a poem or a riddle or something in some way connected with the death of Dido? It was years ago, but I distinctly
