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 was that there was nothing now to prevent him telling
the whole story to Reece and Marriott. Reece, if anybody, deserved to
have his curiosity satisfied. The way in which he had abstained from
questions at the time of the episode had been nothing short of
magnificent. Reece must certainly be told.

Neither Reece nor Marriott had arrived at the moment. Both were in the
habit of returning at the latest possible hour, except at the beginning
of the summer term. The Bishop determined to reserve his story until
the following evening.

Accordingly, when the study kettle was hissing on the Etna, and Wilson
was crouching in front of the fire, making toast in his own inimitable
style, he embarked upon his narrative.

'I say, Marriott.'

'Hullo.'

'Do you notice a subtle change in me this term? Does my expressive
purple eye gleam more brightly than of yore? It does. Exactly so. I
feel awfully bucked up. You know that kid Farnie has left?'

'I thought I missed his merry prattle. What's happened to him?'

'Gone to a school in France somewhere.'

'Jolly for France.'

'Awfully. But the point is that now he's gone I can tell you about that
M.C.C. match affair. I know you want to hear what really did happen
that afternoon.'

Marriott pointed significantly at Wilson, whose back was turned.

'Oh, that's all right,' said Gethryn. 'Wilson.'

'Yes?'

'You mustn't listen. Try and think you're a piece of furniture. See?
And if you do happen to overhear anything, you needn't go gassing about
it. Follow?'

'All right,' said Wilson, and Gethryn told his tale.

'Jove,' he said, as he finished, 'that's a relief. It's something to
have got that off my chest. I do bar keeping a secret.'

'But, I say,' said Marriott.

'Well?'

'Well, it was beastly good of you to do it, and that sort of thing, I
suppose. I see that all right. But, my dear man, what a rotten thing to
do. A kid like that. A little beast who simply cried out for sacking.'

'Well, at any rate, it's over now. You needn't jump on me. I acted from
the best motives. That's what my grandfather, Farnie's _pater_,
you know, always used to say when he got at me for anything in the
happy days of my childhood. Don't sit there looking like a beastly
churchwarden, you ass. Buck up, and take an intelligent interest in
things.'

'No, but really, Bishop,' said Marriott, 'you must treat this
seriously. You'll have to let the other chaps know about it.'

'How? Put it up on the notice-board? This is to certify that Mr Allan
Gethryn, of Leicester's House, Beckford, is dismissed without a stain
on his character. You ass, how can I let them know? I seem to see
myself doing the boy-hero style of things. My friends, you wronged me,
you wronged me very grievously. But I forgive you. I put up with your
cruel scorn. I endured it. I steeled myself against it. And now I
forgive you profusely, every one of you. Let us embrace. It wouldn't
do. You must see that much. Don't be a goat. Is that toast done yet,
Wilson?'

Wilson exhibited several pounds of the article in question.

'Good,' said the Bishop. 'You're a great man, Wilson. You can make a
small selection of those biscuits, and if you bag all the sugar ones
I'll slay you, and then you can go quietly downstairs, and rejoin your
sorrowing friends. And don't you go telling them what I've been
saying.'

'Rather not,' said Wilson.

He made his small selection, and retired. The Bishop turned to Marriott
again.

'I shall tell Reece, because he deserves it, and I rather think I shall
tell Gosling and Pringle. Nobody else, though. What's the good of it?
Everybody'll forget the whole thing by next season.'

'How about Norris?' asked Marriott.

'Now there you have touched the spot. I can't possibly tell Norris
myself. My natural pride is too enormous. Descended from a primordial
atomic globule, you know, like Pooh Bah. And I shook hands with a duke
once. The man Norris and I, I regret to say, had something of a row on
the subject last term. We parted with mutual expressions of hate, and
haven't spoken since. What I should like would be for somebody else to
tell him all about it. Not you. It would look too much like a put-up
job. So don't you go saying anything. Swear.'

'Why not?'

'Because you mustn't. Swear. Let me hear you swear by the bones of your
ancestors.'

'All right. I call it awful rot, though.'

'Can't be helped. Painful but necessary. Now I'm going to tell Reece,
though I don't expect he'll remember anything about it. Reece never
remembers anything beyond his last meal.'

'Idiot,' said Marriott after him as the door closed. 'I don't know,
though,' he added to himself.

And, pouring himself out another cup of tea, he pondered deeply over
the matter.

Reece heard the news without emotion.

'You're a good sort, Bishop,' he said, 'I knew something of the kind
must have happened. It reminds me of a thing that happened to--'

'Yes, it is rather like it, isn't it?' said the Bishop. 'By the way,
talking about stories, a chap I met in the holidays told me a ripper.
You see, this chap and his brother--'

He discoursed fluently for some twenty minutes. Reece sighed softly,
but made no attempt to resume his broken narrative. He was used to this
sort of thing.

It was a fortnight later, and Marriott and the Bishop were once more
seated in their study waiting for Wilson to get tea ready. Wilson made
toast in the foreground. Marriott was in football clothes, rubbing his
shin gently where somebody had kicked it in the scratch game that
afternoon. After rubbing for a few moments in silence, he spoke
suddenly.

'You must tell Norris,' he said. 'It's all rot.'

'I can't.'

'Then I shall.'

'No, don't. You swore you wouldn't.'

'Well, but look here. I just want to ask you one question. What sort of
a time did you have in that scratch game tonight?'

'Beastly. I touched the ball exactly four times. If I wasn't so awfully
ornamental, I don't see what would be the use of my turning out at all.
I'm no practical good to the team.'

'Exactly. That's just what I wanted to get at. I don't mean your remark
about your being ornamental, but about your never touching the ball.
Until you explain matters to Norris, you never will get a decent pass.
Norris and you are a rattling good pair of centre threes, but if he
never gives you a pass, I don't see how we can expect to have any
combination in the First. It's no good my slinging out the ball if the
centres stick to it like glue directly they get it, and refuse to give
it up. It's simply sickening.'

Marriott played half for the First Fifteen, and his soul was in the
business.

'But, my dear chap,' said Gethryn, 'you don't mean to tell me that a
man like Norris would purposely rot up the First's combination because
he happened to have had a row with the other centre. He's much too
decent a fellow.'

'No. I don't mean that exactly. What he does is this. I've watched him.
He gets the ball. He runs with it till his man is on him, and then he
thinks of passing. You're backing him up. He sees you, and says to
himself, "I can't pass to that cad"--'

'Meaning me?'

'Meaning you.'

'Thanks awfully.'

'Don't mention it. I'm merely quoting his thoughts, as deduced by me.
He says, "I can't pass to that--well, individual, if you prefer it.
Where's somebody else?" So he hesitates, and gets tackled, or else
slings the ball wildly out to somebody who can't possibly get to it.
It's simply infernal. And we play the Nomads tomorrow, too. Something
must be done.'

'Somebody ought to tell him. Why doesn't our genial skipper assert his
authority?'

'Hill's a forward, you see, and doesn't get an opportunity of noticing
it. I can't tell him, of course. I've not got my colours--'

'You're a cert. for them.'

'Hope so. Anyway, I've not got them yet, and Norris has, so I can't
very well go slanging him to Hill. Sort of thing rude people would call
side.'

'Well, I'll look out tomorrow, and if it's as bad as you think, I'll
speak to Hill. It's a beastly thing to have to do.'

'Beastly,' agreed Marriott. 'It's got to be done, though. We can't go
through the season without any combination in the three-quarter line,
just to spare Norris's feelings.'

'It's a pity, though,' said the Bishop, 'because Norris is a ripping
good sort of chap, really. I wish we hadn't had that bust-up last
term.'