A Javelin for Jonah

“I must hope that you are right. But you know what these girls are. If she has a child, whether it is yours or not, you will have laid yourself open to the most unpleasant consequences.”

“And you will have laid yourself open to paying compensation, of course, as you are my banker, dear boy; so, if the girl and her father attempt to put the screw on—well, you’ll know what to do about it, won’t you? You owe me already more than you’ll ever be able to pay.”

“Now, look here, Davy—.”

“Oh, be your age, my dear chap! Forget it! You can always square those sort of people, and you have plenty of my sister’s money for a hand-out.”

There was an angry exclamation from Gascoigne and then Hamish heard a door slam. He peered out through the crack of his own inner door. Jones had gone. Gascoigne Medlar sat down at his desk, pulled some papers towards him, fidgeted with them for a minute or two and then thrust them into a drawer and followed his brother- in-law out of the room. Hamish made his own escape and went in search of Martin, wishing that he could confide in him, for the conversation he had overheard hinted unpleasantly of blackmail. “There’s a film-show this afternoon instead of field and track practices,” said Martin. “Jerry will come for a run if you’ll join us. Henry doesn’t need any help in the hall.”

“Oh, good. What’s the idea, though?”

“Jerry wants to get into training for his club’s first crosscountry run, and Henry thinks a change will do the students good, I suppose. Can you be ready by two? That will give us a nice couple of hours and time for a bath and a change before tea. I’ve laid in some bangers. We can fry them over the gas-ring in my room. It will be like being back at school again.”

“Yes. Good! Fine! What about Barry, though? Wouldn’t he like to join us now he’s back from furlough?”

“No. He’s going to visit his wounded warrior in hospital and look in on Lesley’s damaged gymnasts.”

“What is Lesley doing, then?”

“Putting her Chronos Vase squad through it. Miss Yale and Celia are watching the film and the Warden says he’ll look in at it if he can. I say, did I ever tell you about my interview when he collected me on to the strength here?”

Hamish had heard the story before, but he was fond of his ingenuous friend and invited him to go ahead. He knew that Martin’s interview had not been so very different from his own, except for one pardonable mistake which Martin had made, a pitfall which Hamish had avoided.

“Well,” said Martin, “I only came down with a rather fluky third, you know, and I was applying for every scholastic job within reach, so I applied for this one. I hadn’t a hope, really, but it soon dawned on me that the last things the Warden cared about were academic qualifications. What he was after were good-tempered hearties, so the thing went somewhat as follows: (You have to imagine me with all my ganglions quivering, and being prepared to embrace the boss’s knees at the drop of a hat in order to get a job.)

Me. Good morning, sir. It is very good of you to see me.

Him. Good morning, my dear fellow. Sit down, sit down, won’t you? Now, let me see. What did we apply for?

Me. Assistant lecturer in applied maths, sir.

Him. Ah, yes, to be sure. Of course. I remember now. Well, my dear fellow—by the way, we are all on Christian name terms here, so I shall address you hereafter as—let me see now—your application form? Here we are! Yes, of course! I shall address you in future as Martin. Well, now, Martin! Applied mathematics, as it is understood at Joynings, is a severely practical subject. There will be a certain amount of lecture-room work, of course, but nothing which need worry you. Henry will know. Perhaps you would go out on to the field and find him. Look for a small, spare man wearing a regrettable tweed cap with his blazer. He will tell you what he wants you to do. Coaching of field athletics, I believe it is. You won an inter-college event, I understand, in some form of throwing competition when you were up.

Me. Yes, sir, I—that is, well, the shot. It’s not really a throw, it’s a putt. As a matter of fact, sir…

Him. Gassie, my dear Martin, Gassie.

Me. I didn’t mean to be loquacious, sir. I’m very sorry. I only meant to tell you…

Him. Loquacious?

Me. Gassy, sir.”

Hamish laughed. “You are an ass!” he said.

“I could see a new thought had come to him,” went on Martin, “but you know, Jimmy, I can no more envisage myself addressing the Warden as Gassie than taking a trip in a space thingummy to the moon. However—I don’t believe I’ve told anybody this bit—I went on to tell him that, when he put me right, I was only going to say that I was really a javelin man. We were short on the shot that year, so I agreed to take it on, but it wasn’t my best event. All he said was, ‘Splendid, my dear Martin. Henry is the small, alert man in the loud tweed cap which he insists upon wearing with his blazer.’ ”

“His method of terminating all interviews, I think,” said Hamish, reserving to himself the fact that Gascoigne’s last interview had not been concluded in quite that way. “What about this run?”

“The run? Oh, I’m leaving that to Jerry. He’ll know a route. About seven miles is my idea, but he may want to stretch it to twelve.”

“If he does,” said Hamish, “I think you and I will take a short cut home and fry the bangers.”

Jerry, however, was willing to allow that six or seven miles at that time of year would be sufficient.

“It’s damned hot today,” he said. “Heard the latest about Jonesy?”

“If you mean in connection with Bertha’s father,” began Martin, “the answer is yes.”

“Oh, no. Since then. It seems Jonah has been to old Gassie and offered his resignation. One of my sprint relay lot told me.”