A Prefect’s Uncle

first, when he saw two where he had only sent for one, the Headmaster did not understand at all, and said so. He had prepared to annihilate Lorimer hip and thigh, for he was now convinced that his blank astonishment at the mention of The Dark Horse during their previous interview had been, in the words of the bard, a mere veneer, a wile of guile. Since the morning he had seen Mr. Lawrie again, and had with his own eyes compared the two poems, the printed and the written, the author by special request having hunted up a copy of that valuable work, The Dark Horse, from the depths of a cupboard in his rooms.

His astonishment melted before Pringle’s explanation, which was brief and clear, and gave way to righteous wrath. In well-chosen terms he harangued the two criminals. Finally he perorated.

“There is only one point which tells in your favour. You have not attempted concealment.” (Pringle nudged Lorimer surreptitiously at this.) “And I may add that I believe that, as you say, you did not desire actually to win the prize by underhand means. But I cannot overlook such an offence. It is serious. Most serious. You will, both of you, go into extra lesson for the remaining Saturdays of the term.”

Extra lesson meant that instead of taking a half-holiday on Saturday like an ordinary law-abiding individual, you treated the day as if it were a full-school day, and worked from two till four under the eye of the Headmaster. Taking into consideration everything, the punishment was not an extraordinarily severe one, for there were only two more Saturdays to the end of term, and the sentence made no mention of the Wednesday half-holidays.

But in effect it was serious indeed. It meant that neither Pringle nor Lorimer would be able to play in the final House match against Leicester’s, which was fixed to begin on the next Saturday at two o’clock. Among the rules governing the House matches was one to the effect that no House might start a match with less than eleven men, nor might the Eleven be changed during the progress of the match⁠—a rule framed by the Headmaster, not wholly without an eye to emergencies like the present.

“Thank goodness,” said Pringle, “that there aren’t any more First matches. It’s bad enough, though, by Jove, as it is. I suppose it’s occurred to you that this cuts us out of playing in the final?”

Lorimer said the point had not escaped his notice.

“I wish,” he observed, with simple pathos, “that I’d got the Rajah of Seltzerpore here now. I’d strangle him. I wonder if the Old Man realizes that he’s done his own House out of the cup?”

“Wouldn’t care if he did. Still, it’s a sickening nuisance. Leicester’s are a cert now.”

“Absolute cert,” said Lorimer; “Baynes can’t do all the bowling, especially on a hard wicket, and there’s nobody else. As for our batting and fielding⁠—”

“Don’t,” said-Pringle gloomily, “it’s too awful.”

On the following Saturday, Leicester’s ran up a total in their first innings which put the issue out of doubt, and finished off the game on the Monday by beating the School House by six wickets.

XVII

The Winter Term

It was the first day of the winter term.

The Bishop, as he came back by express, could not help feeling that, after all, life considered as an institution had its points. Things had mended steadily during the last weeks of the term. He had kept up his end as head of the House perfectly. The internal affairs of Leicester’s were going as smoothly as oil. And there was the cricket cup to live up to. Nothing pulls a House together more than beating all comers in the field, especially against odds, as Leicester’s had done. And then Monk and Danvers had left. That had set the finishing touch to a good term’s work. The Mob were no longer a power in the land. Waterford remained, but a subdued, benevolent Waterford, with a wonderful respect for law and order. Yes, as far as the House was concerned, Gethryn felt no apprehensions. As regarded the School at large, things were bound to come right in time. A school has very little memory. And in the present case the Bishop, being second man in the Fifteen, had unusual opportunities of righting himself in the eyes of the multitude. In the winter term cricket is forgotten. Football is the only game that counts.

And to round off the whole thing, when he entered his study he found a letter on the table. It was from Farnie, and revealed two curious and interesting facts. Firstly he had left, and Beckford was to know him no more. Secondly⁠—this was even more remarkable⁠—he possessed a conscience.

“Dear Gethryn,” ran the letter, “I am writing to tell you my father is sending me to a school in France, so I shall not come back to Beckford. I am sorry about the M.C.C. match, and I enclose the four pounds you lent me. I utterly bar the idea of going to France. It’s beastly, yours truly, R. Farnie.”

The money mentioned was in the shape of a cheque, signed by Farnie senior.

Gethryn was distinctly surprised. That all this time remorse like a worm i’ the bud should have been feeding upon his uncle’s damask cheek, as it were, he had never suspected. His relative’s demeanour since the M.C.C. match had, it is true, been considerably toned down, but this he had attributed to natural causes, not unnatural ones like conscience. As for the four pounds, he had set it down as a bad debt. To get it back was like coming suddenly into an unexpected fortune. He began to think that there must have been some good in Farnie after all, though he was fain to admit that without the aid of a microscope the human eye might well have been excused for failing to detect it.

His next thought