‘Be yourself, child,’ said the Warden, who had learned the expression from Kitty that afternoon. ‘I am credibly and respectfully informed by the senior student (whose name, by the way, is Hilda Mathers and whose home is in Middlesex), that the Second-Year Students always rag the rooms of the First-Year Students on the first night of term, and that she hopes I shall not be disturbed by a little extra noise.’
‘Heavens! What do we do?’
‘Nothing, child. As far as possible the local customs should be respected. That is the first law of government.’
‘Tell me,’ said Deborah suddenly, ‘aren’t you bothering much about being Warden? I mean, don’t you care particularly what they do? Do you — I mean — well, aren’t you —?’
‘You know, you’re tired,’ said Mrs Bradley kindly. ‘You’ll feel better than this in the morning.’
She began to cackle. Deborah laughed, and then found that she could not stop. The parlourmaid, Lulu, an American negress, came in to collect the coffee-cups, and finding ‘the madams’ — a curious traditional name for Hall Wardens and Sub-Wardens — in this silly but helpless condition, she flung back her sooty head and yelped with primitive enthusiasm. This disgraceful scene was interrupted by the senior student.
‘I’m sorry, Warden,’ she said (looking, as, indeed, well she might, poor girl, said Mrs Bradley afterwards when Deborah canvassed her opinion upon ‘what Miss Mathers must have thought,’ somewhat startled at the sight of the Warden, the Sub-Warden and the parlourmaid all having hysterics together in the Warden’s private sitting-room), ‘but there seems to be some water overflowing somewhere, and I think it must be the ball-cocks out of order, as the ragging hasn’t really started yet.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Mrs Bradley, recovering herself and eyeing the senior student solemnly, ‘I had better see about them, then. Is this what usually happens before the Second Years “really” rag the rooms of the First-Year Students?’
‘No, indeed, Warden,’ said the senior student, as they went out into the passage. Lulu, also restored to gravity, rearranged the tray and went out with it. Deborah, a little hazy as to the precise nature of ball-cocks but having a horrid presentiment that they. were something to do with the plumbing, and therefore were hideously unmanageable and important, followed Mrs Bradley and Miss Mathers towards the stairs.
‘Oh, Miss Cloud,’ said a breathless student, waylaying her before she could catch up with the other two, ‘did you know? There’s water coming through the Common Room ceiling.’
‘Well, you’d better come upstairs and help mop up,’ said Deborah, immediately, bundling her up the stairs, where the Warden swung round upon them both.
‘Student,’ said Mrs Bradley, who had discovered that Athelstan’s members answered readily to this optimistic and convenient appellation, ‘do you understand the nature and function of the ball-cock?’
‘N-no, Warden,’ replied the girl, looking thoroughly alarmed.
‘Good,’ said Mrs Bradley, thoughtfully taking her arm in a firm grip. ‘Roll up your sleeves as we go. I will teach you all about them. Don’t you bother, Miss Cloud. The student and I will manage.’
Word of what was in the wind with regard to the ragging had come to the omniscient Alice.
‘I say,’ she confided timidly to Kitty and Laura, as they seated themselves on her bed and produced food with which to supplement the dinner they had just eaten in Hall. ‘I’ve heard that the Seniors are going to rag our rooms.’
‘When?’
‘This evening. We’ve all got to go to a Common Room meeting called by the senior student, and while she’s got us there talking to us about the rules, and that sort of thing, they’re going to rag our rooms and make apple-pie beds and things.’
‘Lor’! Boarding-school stuff?’ said Kitty.
‘Not up here they’re not,’ said Laura, firmly. ‘They can’t renew their youth at our expense.’ She produced a coin. ‘Heads or tails, K.?’
‘Tails, Dog, but I’m sure to lose, so why toss?’
‘You have lost. Can you manage?’
‘Bob’s your uncle,’ replied her friend, apparently intelligibly. Laura, satisfied, stuffed a last tomato sandwich into her mouth, cut herself a generous piece of jam sponge and another for Alice, took that shrinking member of the expeditionary force by the arm, and together they went down the stairs to attend the meeting, which was called for nine o’clock.
Left alone, Kitty went into her own room, locked the door, climbed over into Laura’s room and locked that, and then did the same for Alice’s room. She returned, via the partition, to Laura’s room, took off her shoes and her frock, got into Laura’s bed, as that room was the middle one of the three, and immediately fell asleep. The sounds of revelry woke her twenty minutes later, and she smiled serenely, listened whilst all the three locked doors were tried in turn, waited whilst a whispered consultation, punctuated by giggles, took place on the landing, and then heard the other four rooms on their side of the landing receiving attention from the wreckers.
She arose when the gang had gone, made her own depositions — the seven study-bedrooms on the opposite side of the corridor had all been allotted to Seniors — and retired to rest again, this time not to sleep but to finish the sponge sandwich and read a detective story.
So absorbed was she that she did not hear the timid voice of Alice until it had called her name for the third time.
‘I say,’ said Alice, ‘the rag’s over, but somebody’s gone too far, and there’s been a lot of water through ceilings and things. The Warden is doing a tour, so I thought I’d let you know.’
‘Many thanks. Where’s Dog? In the cooler?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Alice, who apparently understood this reference. ‘She’s helping the Warden. We’ve all been helping the Warden.’
‘Like hell you have,’ replied Kitty, with great appreciation of this jest. ‘Lend me a comb. Oh, I forgot. You can’t get in. Half a sec’
She climbed over and unlocked the doors, to confront a flushed and perspiring Alice, whose sleeves were rolled up displaying remarkably sinewy arms, and whose skirt was dripping water on to the polished boards of the floor.
‘Here, you’d better stand on a rug or something,’ Kitty observed, swiftly and in motherly fashion unfastening Alice’s skirt and slipping it down. ‘Step out, and I’ll go hang it in the bathroom. Stick something else on, or you’ll get a cold, with all that perspiration. What on earth have you been doing, to get in such a state?’
‘Racing about, trying to check up on the — the — ’ She struggled to find a word which should be polite, definite, and, if possible (although she suspected that this was out of the question), belonging equally to her own vocabulary and that of Kitty. Finding the attempt hopeless she abandoned it, and, pulling her dressing-gown round her, stooped to the small cupboard beneath the piece of combination furniture known to Athelstan as a Doris (after the Warden, Miss Murchan’s predecessor, who had introduced it into use from what was popularly believed to be her own design), and exclaimed, in a tone of relief which puzzled Kitty: ‘Oh, mine isn’t there, either!’
‘You’re what? Oh, the Jerry! Well, you don’t want it, do you?’
‘Of course not! Only, you see, it’s a mystery. See whether you’ve got yours, would you?’
Kitty investigated.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I haven’t. And I know it was there, before we went over to College, because Dog and I had a bet on whether they would be provided, and we investigated, and she won. Besides we — Lets see whether hers is still there. What’s all this about, anyway?’