‘I didn’t,’ I said honestly.
‘You don’t know much,’ said Bradshaw, with equal honesty.
‘I don’t,’ I replied. ‘Bradshaw, you’re a great man, but you missed the best part of it all.’
‘What, the Thucydides paper?’ asked he with a grin.
‘No, you missed seeing Gerard jump quite six feet.’
Bradshaw’s face expressed keen disappointment.
‘No, did he really? Oh, I say, I wish I’d seen it.’
The moral of which is that the wicked do not always prosper. If Bradshaw had not been in the Museum, he might have seen Gerard jump six feet, which would have made him happy for weeks. On second thoughts, though, that does not work out quite right, for if Bradshaw had not been in the Museum, Gerard would not have jumped at all. No, better put it this way. I was virtuous, and I had the pleasure of witnessing the sight I have referred to. But then there was the Thucydides paper, which Bradshaw missed but which I did not. No. On consideration, the moral of this story shall be withdrawn and submitted to a committee of experts. Perhaps they will be able to say what it is.
[7]
THE BABE AND THE DRAGON
The annual inter-house football cup at St Austin’s lay between Dacre’s, who were the holders, and Merevale’s, who had been runner-up in the previous year, and had won it altogether three times out of the last five. The cup was something of a tradition in Merevale’s, but of late Dacre’s had become serious rivals, and, as has been said before, were the present holders.
This year there was not much to choose between the two teams. Dacre’s had three of the First Fifteen and two of the Second; Merevale’s two of the First and four of the Second. St Austin’s being not altogether a boarding-school, many of the brightest stars of the teams were day boys, and there was, of course, always the chance that one of these would suddenly see the folly of his ways, reform, and become a member of a House.
This frequently happened, and this year it was almost certain to happen again, for no less a celebrity than MacArthur, commonly known as the Babe, had been heard to state that he was negotiating with his parents to that end. Which House he would go to was at present uncertain. He did not know himself, but it would, he said, probably be one of the two favourites for the cup. This lent an added interest to the competition, for the presence of the Babe would almost certainly turn the scale. The Babe’s nationality was Scots, and, like most Scotsmen, he could play football more than a little. He was the safest, coolest centre three-quarter the School had, or had had for some time. He shone in all branches of the game, but especially in tackling. To see the Babe spring apparently from nowhere, in the middle of an inter-school match, and bring down with violence a man who had passed the back, was an intellectual treat. Both Dacre’s and Merevale’s, therefore, yearned for his advent exceedingly. The reasons which finally decided his choice were rather curious. They arose in the following manner:
The Babe’s sister was at Girton. A certain Miss Florence Beezley was also at Girton. When the Babe’s sister revisited the ancestral home at the end of the term, she brought Miss Beezley with her to spend a week. What she saw in Miss Beezley was to the Babe a matter for wonder, but she must have liked her, or she would not have gone out of her way to seek her company. Be that as it may, the Babe would have gone a very long way out of his way to avoid her company. He led a fine, healthy, out-of-doors life during that week, and doubtless did himself a lot of good. But times will occur when it is imperative that a man shall be under the family roof. Meal-times, for instance. The Babe could not subsist without food, and he was obliged, Miss Beezley or no Miss Beezley, to present himself on these occasions. This, by the way, was in the Easter holidays, so that there was no school to give him an excuse for absence.
Breakfast was a nightmare, lunch was rather worse, and as for dinner, it was quite unspeakable. Miss Beezley seemed to gather force during the day. It was not the actual presence of the lady that revolted the Babe, for that was passable enough. It was her conversation that killed. She refused to let the Babe alone. She was intensely learned herself, and seemed to take a morbid delight in dissecting his ignorance, and showing everybody the pieces. Also, she persisted in calling him Mr MacArthur in a way that seemed somehow to point out and emphasize his youthfulness. She added it to her remarks as a sort of after-thought or echo.
‘Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?’ she would say suddenly, having apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full.
The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say—
‘No, not much.’
‘Ah!’ This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn.
‘When you say “not much”, Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have you read any of his poems?’
‘Oh, yes, one or two.’
‘Ah! Have you read “Pippa Passes”?’
‘No, I think not.’
‘Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you read “Fifine at the Fair”?’
‘No.’
‘Have you read “Sordello”?’
‘No.’
‘What have you read, Mr MacArthur?’
Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin’, and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe’s subsequent share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further onslaught, was not large.
One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost swooned. The lady’s steady and critical inspection of his style of carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name of ‘study-gorges’, where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled.
But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out ‘Fore!’ or something to that effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe reseated himself in an overwrought state.
‘Tell me about St Austin’s, Mr MacArthur,’ said Miss Beezley, as the Babe was trying to think of something to say—not about the weather. ‘Do you play football?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’
A prolonged silence.
‘Do you—’ began the Babe at last.
‘Tell me—’ began Miss Beezley, simultaneously.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Babe; ‘you were saying—?’
‘Not at all, Mr MacArthur. You were saying—?’
‘I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?’
‘Yes; do you?’
‘No.’
‘Ah!’
‘If this is going to continue,’ thought the Babe, ‘I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit suicide.’
There was another long pause.
‘Tell me the names of some of the masters at St Austin’s, Mr MacArthur,’ said Miss Beezley. She habitually spoke as if she were an examination paper, and her manner might have seemed to some to verge upon the autocratic, but the Babe was too thankful that the question was not on Browning or the higher algebra to notice this. He reeled off a list of names.