Tell England: A Study in a Generation (2024)

A Study in a Generation

BY

ERNEST RAYMOND

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
1922

CONTENTS

TELL ENGLAND

A PROLOGUE BY PADRE MONTY

§1

In the year that the Colonel died he took little Rupert to see theswallows fly away. I can find no better beginning than that.

When there devolved upon me as a labour of love the editing ofRupert Ray's book, "Tell England," I carried the manuscript into myroom one bright autumn afternoon, and read it during the fall of asoft evening, till the light failed, and my eyes burned with thestrain of reading in the dark. I could hardly leave his ingenuoustale to rise and turn on the gas. Nor, perhaps, did I want suchartificial brightness. There are times when one prefers thetwilight. Doubtless the tale held me fascinated because it revealedthe schooldays of those boys whom I met in their young manhood, andtold afresh that wild old Gallipoli adventure which I shared withthem. Though, sadly enough, I take Heaven to witness that I was notthe idealised creature whom Rupert portrays. God bless them, howthese boys will idealise us!

Then again, as Rupert tells you, it was I who suggested to him thewriting of his story. And well I recall how he demurred, asking:

"But what am I to write about?" For he was always diffident andunconscious of his power.

"Is Gallipoli nothing to write about?" I retorted. "And you can'thave spent five years at a great public school like Kensingtowewithout one or two sensational things. Pick them out and let us havethem. For whatever the modern theorists say, the main duty of astory-teller is certainly to tell stories."

"But I thought," he broke in, "that you're always maintaining thatthe greatest fiction should be occupied with Subjective Incident."

"Don't interrupt, you argumentative child," I said (you will findRupert is impertinent enough in one place to suggest that I have atendency to be rude and a tendency to hold forth). "Surely the idealstory must contain the maximum of Objective Incident with themaximum of Subjective Incident. Only give us the exciting events ofyour schooldays, and describe your thoughts as they happened, andyou will unconsciously reveal what sort of scoundrelly charactersyou and your friends were. And when you get to the Gallipoli part,well, you can give us chiefly your thoughts, for Gallipoli, as faras dramatic incident is concerned, is well able to shift foritself."

Little wonder that I was fascinated to read Rupert's finalmanuscript. And, when I had finished the last words, Iannounced aloud a weighty decision: "We must have a Prologue,Rupert,"—though, to be sure, my study was empty at the time—"andit must give pictures of what your three heroes were like, when theywere small, abominable boys."

And thereafter I busied myself in seeking information of the earlychildhood of Rupert Ray, Archibald Pennybet, and Edgar Gray Doe. Notwithout misgiving do I offer the result of these researches, for Ifear all the time lest my self-conscious hand should profaneRupert's artless narrative.

In the year that the Colonel died he took little Rupert to see theswallows fly away. Colonel Ray was a stately, grey-beardedgrandfather; and Rupert his flushed and blue-eyed grandson of sixyears old; and the two stood side by side and watched. Behind themlay the French town, Boulogne; beside them went the waters of theFrench river, the Liane. Suddenly Rupert, who had kept his blue eyeson a sky but little bluer, cried out excitedly: "There they are!"For him at that moment the most interesting thing in the world wasthe flight of swallows overhead. The Colonel, also, looked at thebirds till they were out of sight, and then, after keeping silenceawhile, uttered a remark which was rather sent in pursuit of thebirds than addressed to his young companion. "I shall not see theswallows again," he said.

Colonel Rupert Ray was no ordinary person. He was one of those ofwhom tales are told; and such people are never ordinary. The mosttreasured of these tales is the story of the swallows; and it goeson to tell, as you would expect, how the Colonel died that year,before the swallows came flying north and home again. He was buried,while little Rupert and Rupert's mother looked on, in that untidycorner of the Boulogne Cemetery, where many another English half-payofficer had been laid before him.

Of course the burial of the Colonel was very sad for Rupert; but hesoon forgot it all in the excitement of preparing for the journeyback to London. The Colonel, you see, had known that his old lifewould break up soon, and had summoned from their home in London thewidow and child of his favourite son, "that Rupert, the best of thelot," as he used to call him. And now the Colonel was dead. So hisgrandson, the last of the Rupert Rays, could look forward to all thejolly thrills of steaming across the Channel to Folkestone andbowling in a train to London. Really life was an excellent thing.

The day of the venturesome voyage began with excited sleeplessnessand glowing health, and ended with a headache and great tiredness.There was the bustle of embarkation on to the boat; the rattle andbang of falling luggage; the jangle of French and English tongues;the unstraining of mighty ropes; the "hoot! hoot!" from the funnel,a side-splitting incident; the suff-suff-lap-suff of theploughed-up sea; the spray of the Channel, which sprinkling one'scheeks, caused one to roar with laughter, till more moderation wasenjoined; the incessant throb of the engines; the vision of whitecliffs, and the excitement among the passengers; the headache; thelanding on a black old pier; the privilege of guarding the luggageby sitting upon as much of one trunk as six years' growth of boywill cover, and pressing firmly upon two other trunks with eitherhand, while Mrs. Ray (that capable lady) changed francs intoshillings; there was the wearisome and rolling train-journey,wherein one slept, first against the window and then against theblack sleeve of an unknown gentleman; and lastly there was therealisation that pale and sunny France had withdrawn into the pastto make room for pale and smutty London.

Now the Captain of all these manœuvres, as the meanestintelligence will have observed, was Mrs. Ray. Mrs. Ray was Rupert'smother, and as beautiful as every mother must be, who has an onlyson, and is a widow. Moreover she was a perfect teller of stories:all really beautiful mothers are. And, for years after, she used atevening time to draw young Rupert against her knees, and tell himthe traditional stories of that old half-pay officer at Boulogne.And grandfather was indeed a hero in these stories. We suspect—butwho can sound the artful depths of a woman who is at once young,lovely, a mother, and a widow?—that Mrs. Ray, knowing that Rupertcould never recall his father, was determined that at least onesoldierly figure should loom heroic in his childish memories. Shewould tell again and again how he asked repeatedly, as he lay dying,for "that Rupert, the best of the lot." And her son would say: "Is'pose he meant Daddy, mother." "Yes," she would answer. "You see,you were all Ruperts: Grandfather Rupert Ray, Daddy Rupert Ray, andSonny Rupert Ray, my own little Sonny Ray." (Mothers talk in thisabsurd fashion, and Mrs. Ray was the chief of such offenders.)

But quite the masterpiece of all her tales was this. One summermorning, when the Boulogue promenade was bright and crowded andlively, the Colonel was seated with his grandson beside him. Alittle distance away sat Rupert's mother, who was just about as shyof the Colonel as the Colonel was shy of her (which fact accounts,probably, for Rupert Ray's growing up into the shy boy we knew).Well, all of a sudden, the boy got up, stood immediately in front ofhis grandsire, and leaned forward against his knees. There was nomistaking the meaning in the child's eyes; they said plainly: "Thisis entirely the best attitude for story-telling, so please."

The officer, with military quickness, summed up the periloussituation on his front; he had suffered himself to be bombarded by apair of patient eyes. And now he must either acknowledge hisincompetence by a shameful retreat, or he must stir up the dump ofhis imagination and see what stories it contained. So with no smallapprehension, he drew upon his inventive genius.

A wonderful story resulted—wonderful as a prophetic parable ofthings which the Colonel would not live to see. Perhaps it was onlycoincidence that it should be so; perhaps the approach of deathendowed the old gentleman with the gift of dim prophecy—did he notknow that he would follow the swallows away?—perhaps all the Rays,when they stand in that shadow, possess a mystic vision. Certainlythe boy Rupert—but there! I knew I was in danger of spoiling hisstory.

If the Colonel's tale this morning was wonderful to the listener,the author suspected that he was plagiarising. The hero was a knightof peculiar grace, who sustained the spotless name of Sir R——R——. He was not very handsome, having hair that was neither goldnor brown, and a brace of absurdly sea-blue eyes. But he wasdistinguished by many estimable qualities; he was English, forexample, and not French, very brave, very sober, and quite fond ofan elderly relation. And one day he was undoubtedly (although theColonel's conscience pricked him) plunging on foot through a denseforest to the aid of a fellow-knight who had been captured andimprisoned.

"What was the other knight like?" interrupted Rupert.

"What, indeed?" echoed the Colonel, temporising till he shouldevolve an answer. "Yes, that's a very relevant question. Well, hewas a good deal fairer than Sir R—— R——, but about the same age,only with brown eyes, and he was a very nice little boy—youngfellow, I mean."

"What was his name?"

"His name? Oh, well—" and here the Colonel, feeling with some tastethat "Smith," or "Jones," or "Robinson" was out of place in a forestwhose mediæval character was palpable, and being quite unable atsuch short notice to recall any other English names, gained time bythe following ingenious detail: "Oh, well, he lost his good name bybeing captured. And then—and then to his aid came the stalwart SirR——, with his sword drawn, and his—er—"

"Revoller," suggested the listener.

"Yes, his revolver fixed to his chain-mail—"

In this strain the Colonel proceeded, wondering whether suchabominable nonsense was interesting the child, whose gaze had nowbegun to reach out to sea. In reality Rupert was thrilled, and didnot like to disturb the flow of a story so affecting. But thestrength of his feelings was too much. He was obliged to suggest anamendment.

"Are you sure I didn't go upon a horse?" he asked.

"Why, of course, the unknown knight in question did, and the sheathof his sword clanked against his horse's side, as he dashed throughthe thicket."

"Had the fair-haired knight anything to eat all this time?"

This important problem was duly settled, and several others whichwere seen to be involved in such an intricate story; and a veryhappy conclusion was reached, when Mrs. Ray decided that it was timefor Rupert to be taken home. She was about to lead him away, whenthe Colonel, who seldom spoke to her much, abruptly murmured:

"He has that Rupert's eyes."

For a moment she was quite taken aback, and then timorously replied:"Yes, they are very blue."

"Very blue," repeated the Colonel.

Mrs. Ray thereupon felt she must obviate an uncomfortable silence,and began with a nervous laugh:

"He was born when we were in Geneva, you know, and we used to callhim 'our mountain boy,' saying that he had brought a speck of themountain skies away in his eyes."

The Colonel conceded a smile, but addressed his reply to the child:"A mountain boy, is he?" and, placing his hand on Rupert's head, heturned the small face upward, and watched it break into a smile."Well, well. A mountain boy, eh?—from the lake of Geneva. H'm. Ila dans les yeux un coin du lac."

At this happy description the tears of pleasure sprang to thefoolish eyes of Mrs. Ray, while Rupert, thinking with much wisdomthat all the conditions were favourable, gazed up into the Colonel'sface, and fired his last shot.

"What really was the fair-haired knight's name?"

"Perhaps you will know some day," answered the Colonel, halfplayfully, half wearily.

§2

In the course of the same summer Master Archibald Pennybet, ofWimbledon, celebrated his eighth birthday. He celebrated it by ariotous waking-up in the sleeping hours of dawn; he celebrated it bya breakfast which extended him so much that his skin becameunbearably tight; and then, in a new white sailor-suit and brownstockings turned over at the calves to display a couple ofmagnificent knees, he celebrated some more of it in the garden.There on the summer lawn he stood, unconsciously deliberating howbest to give new expression to the personality of ArchibaldPennybet. He was dark, gloriously built, and possessed eyes thatlazily drooped by reason of their heavy lashes; and, I am sorry tosay, he evoked from a boudoir window the gurgling admiration of hisfashionable mother, who, while her hair was being dressed, allowedher glance to swing from her hand-mirror, which framed a gratifyingvision of herself, to the window, which framed a still moregratifying vision of her son. "He gets his good looks from me," shethought. And, having noticed the drooping of his eyelids,over-weighted with lashes, she brought her hand-mirror into playagain. "He is lucky," she added, "to have inherited those lazy eyesfrom me."

Soon Archie retired in the direction of the kitchen-garden. Thekitchen-garden, with its opportunities of occasional refreshmentsuch as would not add uncomfortably to his present feeling oftightness, was the place for a roam. Five minutes later he wasleaning against the wire-netting of the chicken-run, and offering anold co*ck, who asked most pointedly for bread, a stone. To know howto spend a morning was no easier on a birthday than on any ordinaryday.

Suddenly, however, he overheard the gardener mentioning a murderwhich had been committed on Wimbledon Common, a fine tract of wildjungle and rolling prairie, that lay across the main road. Withoutwaiting to prosecute inquiries which would have told him that,although the confession was only in the morning papers, the murderwas twenty years old, he escaped unseen and set his little whitefigure on a walk through the common. He was out to see the blood.

But, for a birthday, it was a disappointing morning. He discoveredfor the first time that Wimbledon Common occupied an interminableexpanse of country; and really there was nothing unusual thismorning about its appearance, or about the looks of the people whomhe passed. So he gave up his quest and returned homeward. Then itwas that his lazy eyes looked down a narrow, leafy lane that ranalong the high wall of his own garden. Now all Wimbledon suspectsthat this lane was designed by the Corporation as a walk for lovers.There is evidence of the care and calculation that one spends on achicken-run. For the Corporation, knowing the practice of lovers,has placed in the shady recesses of the lane a seat where thesecomical people can intertwine. At the sight of the lane and theseat, Master Pennybet immediately decided how he would occupy hisafternoon. He would move that seat along his garden wall, till itrested beneath some ample foliage where he could lie hidden. Then hewould wait the romantic moments of the evening.

This idea proved so exciting that the luncheon of which he partookwas (for a birthday) regrettably small. And no sooner was itfinished than he rushed into the lane, and addressed his splendidmuscles to removing the seat.

To begin with he tried pushing. This failed. The more he pushed themore his end of the seat went up into the air, while the otherremained fast in the ground. The only time he succeeded in makingthe seat travel at all it went so fast that it laid him on hisstomach in the lane. So he tried pulling from the other end. Thiswas only partially successful. The seat moved towards him withjerks, at one time arriving most damnably on his shins, and atanother throwing him into a sitting position on to the ground. Andthere is a portion of small boys which is very sensitive to stonyground. At these repeated checks the natural child in Mr. Pennybetcaused his eyes to become moist, whereupon the strong andunconquerable man in him choked back a sob of temper, and pulled theseat with a passionate determination. I tell you, such indomitablegrit will always get its way, and the seat was well lodged againstMr. Pennybet's wall and beneath his green fastness, before theafternoon blushed into the lovers' hour. He returned into hisgarden, and, climbing up the wall by means of the mantling ivy,reached his chosen observation-post. Through curtains of greenery hewatched the arrival of a pair of lovers, and held his breath, asthey seated themselves beneath him.

They were an even more ridiculous couple than their kind usuallyare. And, when the gentleman squeezed the lady, she laughed sofoolishly that Archie Pennybet was within an ace of forgettinghimself and heartily laughing too. It was worse still, when theybegan the pernicious practice of "rubbing noses." For the operationwas so new and unexpected, and withal so congenial to Archie, thathe risked discovery by craning forward to study it. He watched withjaws parted in a wide gape of amazement, and then said to himself:"Well, I'm damned!" There is but one step (I am told) from rubbingnoses to the real business of the kiss. And it was when thegentleman brought the lady's lips into contact with his own, and thepeculiar sound was heard in the lane, that Mr. Pennybet's moment hadcome.

"Hem! Hem! Oh, I say!" he suggested loudly, and sought safety byslipping rapidly down his side of the wall, scratching his hands andbare knees as he fell.

This fine triumph had been at a cost. Archie surveyed himself. Hisnew suit was clearly disreputable. And, in his mother's eyes, theone crime punishable by whipping was to make a new suitdisreputable. The more he studied the extent of the damage, the morehe felt convinced that, in the expiation of this potty littleoffence, his body would be commandeered to play a painful and ratherpassive part.

His brain, therefore, worked rapidly and well. It was more thanpossible, thought he, that his mother's sympathy could be induced toexceed her indignation. She was really an affectionate woman; andthis was the line to go upon. So he squeezed the scratches in hisknees to expedite the issue of blood, and bravely entered the house.

"Mother," he called, introducing suitable pathos into his tones,"Mother, I've fallen all down the wall!"

This effective opening, should it seem successful, it was hisintention to follow up with seasonable allusions to his birthday.But alas! one glimpse of Mrs. Pennybet's face when she saw his suit,showed him the folly of remaining on the scene, and with the speedof a fawn, he was out in the garden, and up an elm tree, swayingabout like a crow's nest. And there, a minute later, was Mrs.Pennybet standing below, her skirts held up in one hand, a smallcane in the other.

"Come down, Archie," she said. "Come down."

"Not a bit of it," replied her son. "You come up!"

At least Mrs. Pennybet, a vivacious raconteuse, always declared tome that such was his reply. I do not trust these mothers, however,and regard it as a piece of her base embroidery. At any rate, it iscertain that her effort to secure Archie for punishment was quiteunsuccessful. And, an hour afterwards, a small figure came quietlydown the trunk of the tree, and, entering the room where his motherwas, sat quickly in a big arm-chair, and held on tightly to itsarms. This position prevented access to that particular area ofArchie Pennybet, which, in the view of himself, his mother, and allsound conservatives, must be exposed, if corporal punishment is tobe the standard thing. Mrs. Pennybet, good woman, admitted herdefeat, and kissed him repeatedly, while he still held himself tightin his chair.

Such was Archie Pennybet, whom Mrs. Pennybet considered a remarkablyfine boy, and the son of a remarkably fine woman. In this battle ofwits he undoubtedly won. And it is a fact that throughout life hemade a point of winning, as all shall see, who read Rupert Ray'sstory.

He was a mischievous, tumbling scamp, I suppose; but what are we tosay? All young animals gambol, and are saucy. Only this morning Iwas watching a lamb butt its mother in the ribs, and roll in thegrass, and dirty its wool—the graceless young rascal!

§3

But come, we are keeping Edgar Gray Doe waiting.

If you have ever steamed up the Estuary of the Fal, that statelyCornish river, and gazed with rapture at the lofty and thick-woodedhills, through which the wide stream runs, you have probably seen onthe eastern bank the splendid mansion of Graysroof. You have admiredits doric façade and the deep, green groves that embrace it on everyside. Perhaps it has been pointed out to you as the home of SirPeter Gray, the once-famous Surrey bowler, and the parent of a wholeherd of young cricketing Grays.

It was in this palatial dwelling that little Edgar Gray Doe awoke toa consciousness of himself, and of many other remarkable things;such things as the broad, silver mouth of the Fal; the green slopes,on which his house stood; the rather fearsome woods that surroundedit; and, above all, the very obvious fact that he was not as otherboys. For instance, his cricketing cousins, these Gray boys, weresons with a visible mother and father, and, in being so, appeared toconform to a normal condition, while he was a nephew with an uncleand aunt. Again these fellows were blue-eyed and drab, and, as such,were decent and reasonable, while he was brown-eyed andpreposterously fair-haired. To be sure, it was only his oval facethat saved him from the horrible indignity of being called"Snowball."

One morning of that perfect summer, which was the sixth of RupertRay, and the eighth of Archie Pennybet, Edgar Gray Doe felt someelation at the prospect of a visit from a very imposing friend. Thisperson was staying down the stream at Falmouth; and he and hismother had been invited by Lady Gray to spend the day at Graysroof.His name was Archie Pennybet. And the power of his personality layin these remarkable qualities: first, he enjoyed the distinction ofbeing two years older than Master Doe; secondly, he had a genius forgames that thrilled, because they were clearly sin; and thirdly, hishair was dark and glossy, so he could legitimately twit other peoplewith being albinos.

And to-day this exciting creature would have to devote himselfentirely to Edgar Doe, as the Gray boys were safely billeted inpublic and preparatory schools, and there was thus no sickeningpossibility of his chasing after them, or going on to their sideagainst Edgar.

Edgar Doe knew that Mrs. Pennybet and Archie were coming in arow-boat from Falmouth, and it was a breathless moment when he sawthem stepping on to the Graysroof landing-stage, and Lady Graywalking down the sloping lawn to meet them.

"Hallo, kid," shouted Archie. "Mother, there's Edgar!"

Rather startled by this sudden notoriety, Edgar approached the newarrivals.

"Hallo, kid," repeated Master Pennybet; and then stopped, his supplyof greetings being exhausted.

"Hallo," answered Edgar, slowly and rather shyly, for he was twoyears younger than anyone present.

"Welcome to the Fal," said Lady Gray to Mrs. Pennybet. "Archie, areyou going to give me a kiss?"

"No," announced Archie firmly. "I don't kiss mother's friends now."

Lady Gray concealed the fact that she thought her guest's littleboy a hateful child, and, having patted his head, sent him off withEdgar Doe to play in the Day-nursery.

Of course the Master of the Ceremonies in the Day-nursery was MasterPennybet. Master Doe was his devoted mate. The first game was adisgusting one, called "Spits." It consisted in the two combatantsfacing each other with open umbrellas, and endeavouring to registerpoints by the method suggested in the title of the game; theumbrella was a shield, with which to intercept any good shooting.Luckily for their self-respect in later years, this difficult gamesoon yielded place to an original competition, known as "Fire andWater." You placed a foot-bath under that portable gas-stove whichwas in the Day-nursery; you lit all the trivets in the stove torepresent a house on fire; and you had a pail, ready to be filledfrom the bathroom, which, need we say, was the fire-station. Therules provided that the winner was he who could extinguish theconflagration raging in the foot-bath in the shortest possible time,and with the least expenditure of water. But the natural desire towin and to record good times meant that you were apt, in the hasteand enthusiasm of the moment, to miss the bath entirely, and toflood quite a different part of the nursery. It was this flaw in anotherwise simple game, which brought the play to an end. Intimationsthat an aquatic tourney of some sort was the feature in theDay-nursery began to leak through to the room below. The competitorswere apprehended and brought for judgment before the ladies, whowere sitting in the garden and watching the Fal as it streamed by tothe sea.

"They had better go and play in the Beach Grove," sighed Lady Gray.

This ruling Archie did not veto or contest, for he had wearied ofindoor amusem*nts, and felt that the well-timbered groves wouldafford new avenues for play. So the boys departed like deer amongthe trunks of the trees.

It was a cosy conversation which the ladies enjoyed after this. Anyconversation would be cosy that had been reared in the glory of sucha garden, and in the comfort of those lazy chairs. Mrs. Pennybetbegan by declaring, as these shameless ladies do, that her hostess'sfair-haired nephew was quite the most beautiful child she had everseen; she could hug him all day; nay, she could eat him. And,thereupon Lady Gray told her the whole story of Edgar Gray Doe; howhis mother had been Sir Peter's sister, and the loveliest woman inWestern Cornwall; how she had paid with her life for Edgar's being;and how her husband, the chief of lovers, had quickly followed hisyoung bride.

"They're an emotional lot, these Does," said Lady Gray. "As surelyas they come fair-haired, they are brilliantly romantic and blindlyadoring. And Edgar's every inch a Doe. Anybody can lead him intomischief. And anybody who likes will do so."

"Oh, I suppose he's troublesome like all boys," suggested Mrs.Pennybet, with a rapid mental survey of the existence of Archie. "Hewill grow into a fine man some day."

"Perhaps," said Lady Gray, staring over the tranquil water of theFal, as though it represented the intervening years. "We shall see."

"And Archie," continued Mrs. Pennybet, "though he's a plague now,will be a brilliant and dominating man, I think. He's not easilymastered, and I don't believe adverse circ*mstances will ever beathim.... Isn't it funny to think that these restless boys are here toinherit the world? We old fogies"—Mrs. Pennybet laughed, for shedidn't mean what she said—"are really done for and shelved. Theseboys are the interesting ones, whose tales have yet to be told."

The speaker dropped her voice, as she found herself moralising; andLady Gray perceived that an atmosphere of tender speculation hadrisen around their conversation. She turned her face away, andlooked over that part of the inheritable world which met her gaze.From her feet perfect lawns sloped down to a gracious waterway,which shuddered occasionally in a gentle wind; on every sidepleasing trees were massed into shady and grateful woods; overheadthe noonday sun lit up a deep-blue sky. Perhaps the sublimity of thescene played upon her softer emotions. Perhaps all intense beauty ispathetic, and makes one think of poor illusions and unavailingdreams. Lady Gray wondered why she could not feel, on this serenemorning, the same confidence in Edgar Doe's future, as her friendfelt in Archie's; why she should rather be conscious of a romanticforeboding. But she only murmured:

"Yes, we must bow before sovereign youth."

And that was the last word uttered, till the sound of hearty boys'voices, coming from the trunks of the trees, prompted Mrs. Pennybetto say cheerfully:

"Here they come, the heirs to the world."

As she spoke, Archie Pennybet, dark and dictatorial, and Edgar Doe,fair and enthusiastic, came into view.

"Yes," replied Lady Gray, "but only two of them. There are othersthey must share it with. Shall we go indoors?"

And indoors or out-of-doors, that was a very delightful day spent atGraysroof. And, when the sun's rays began to grow ruddy, there camethe pleasant journey down the Estuary to Falmouth Town. Mrs.Pennybet and her son were rowed homeward by Baptist, that sombreboatman employed at Graysroof, in Master Doe's own particular boat."The Lady Fal," men called it, from the dainty conceit that it wasthe spouse of the lordly Estuary. Edgar Doe accompanied them, as themaster of his craft.

Nobody talked much during the voyage. Baptist was always too solemnfor speech. Master Doe, on these occasions, liked to dream with onehand trailing in the water. Master Pennybet, in the common way oftired children, finished the day in listless woolgathering. And hismother, recalling the conversation in the stately garden up thestream, fell to wondering whither these boys were tending.

So the passage down the full and slumbery Fal seemed nearly asoundless thing. But all the real river-noises were there; the birdswere singing endlessly in the groves; the gulls with their hoarselanguage were flying seawards from the mud-flats of Truro; the waterwas gently lapping the sides of the boat; and voices could be heardfrom the distances higher up and lower down the stream. And behindall this prattle of the Estuary hung the murmur of the sea.

It was a very quiet boat that unladed the Pennybets on the steps ofa stone pier at Falmouth, and then swung round and carried Edgar upits own wake. Baptist was a glorious hand with the paddles, and, asthe Lady Fal swept easily over the glassy water, Edgar gazed atthe familiar things coming into view. There, at last, was the hugehouse of Graysroof, belittled by the loftiness of the quilted hill,on whose slope it stood, and by the extent of its surrounding woods.And there in the water lay mirrored a reflection of house and treesand hillside. Baptist rested on his oars, and, turning round on hisseat, drank in the loveliness of England and the Fal. His oarsremained motionless for a long time, till he suddenly commented:

"H'm."

This encouraging remark Master Doe interpreted as a willingness toconverse, and he let escape a burst of confidence.

"You know, I like Archie Pennybet very much indeed. In fack, I thinkI like him better than anyone else in the world, 'septing of coursemy relations."

Watching his hearer nervously to see how he would receive thisimportant avowal, Master Doe flushed when he saw no signs of emotionon Baptist's countenance. He didn't like thinking he had madehimself look a fool. Probably Baptist perceived this, for he felt hemust contrive a reply, and, abandoning "H'm" as too uncouth and toounflavoured with sympathy, gave of his best, muttering:

"Ah, he's one of we."

Then, realising that the sun had gone in a blaze of glory, and thathe must waste no further time in prolonged gossip, he dipped hisblade into the still water, and turned the head of the boat for theGraysroof bank; and for the things that should be.

BOOK I
FIVE GAY YEARS OF SCHOOL

Part I: Tidal Reaches

CHAPTER I

RUPERT RAY BEGINS HIS STORY

§1

"I'm the best-looking person in this room," said Archibald Pennybet."Ray's face looks as though somebody had trodden on it, andDoe's—well, Doe's would be better if it had been trodden on."

It was an early morning of the Kensingtowe Summer Term, and thethree of us, Archie Pennybet, Edgar Gray Doe, and I, Rupert Ray,were waiting in the Junior Preparation Room at Bramhall House, tillthe bell should summon us over the playing fields to morning school.Kensingtowe, of course, is the finest school in England, andBramhall its best house. Now, Pennybet, though not himselfcourteous, always insisted that Doe and I should treat him withproper respect, so, since he was senior and thus magnificent, I'llbegin by describing him.

He was right in saying that he was the handsomest. He was a tall boyof fifteen years, with long limbs that were saved from any unlovelyslimness by their full-fleshed curves and perfect straightness. Hisface, whose skin was as smooth as that of a bathed and anointedGreek, was crowned by dark hair, and made striking by a pair ofthose long-lashed eyes that are always brown. And in character hewas the most remarkable. Though two years our senior, hedeliberately lagged behind the boys of his own age, and remained theoldest member of our form. Thoughtless masters called him a dunce,but abler ones knew him to be only idle. And Pennybet cared littlefor either opinion. He had schemed to remain in a low form; and thatwas enough. It was better to be a field-marshal among the "kids"than a ranker among his peers. Like Satan, for whom he probably felta certain admiration, he found it better to reign in hell than servein heaven.

The personal attendants of this splendid sultan consisted of EdgarDoe and myself. We were not allowed by him to forget that, if hecould total fifteen years, we could only scrape together a barethirteen. We were mere children. Doe and I, being thirteen and anexact number of days, were twins, or we would have been, had it notbeen for the divergence of our parentage. We often expressed a wishthat this divergence were capable of remedy. It involved minordifferences. For instance, while Doe's eyes were brown, mine wereblue; and while Doe's hair was very fair, mine was a tedious drabthat had once been gold. Moreover, in place of my wide mouth, Doepossessed lips that were always parted like those of a pretty girl.Indeed, if Archie Pennybet was the handsomest of us three, it iscertain that Edgar Gray Doe was the prettiest.

We came to be discussing our looks this morning, because Pennybet,having discovered that among other accomplishments he was a fineethnologist, was about to determine the race and tribe of each of usby an examination of our features and colouring.

"I'm a Norman," he decided, and threw himself back on his chair,putting his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, as thoughthat were a comely Norman attitude, "a pure Norman, but I don't knowhow my hair got so dark, and my eyes such a spiffing brown."

"What am I?" I interrupted, as introducing a subject of moreimmediate interest.

"You, Ray? Oh, you're a Saxon. Your name's Rupert, you see, andyou've blue eyes and a fair skin, and all that rot."

I was quite satisfied with being a pure Saxon, and left Doe to hisexamination.

"What am I?" he eagerly asked, offering his oval face and partedlips for scrutiny.

"You? Oh, Saxon, with a dash of Southern blood. Brown eyes, you see,and that sloppy milk-and-coffee skin. And there's a dash of Vikingin you—that's your fair hair. Adulterated Saxon you are."

At this Doe loudly protested that he was a pure Saxon, a perfectCornish Saxon from the banks of the Fal.

Penny always discouraged precocious criticism, so he replied:

"I'm not arguing with you, my child."

"You? Who are you?"

Penny let his thumbs go further into his armholes, and assured uswith majestic suavity:

"I? I'm Me."

"No, you're not," snapped Doe. "You're not me. I'm me."

"Well, you're neither of you me," interrupted the third fool in theroom. "I'm me. So sucks!"

"Now you two boys," began our stately patron, "don't you begindictating to me. Once and for all, Doe is Doe, Ray is Ray, and I'mMe. Why, by Jove! Doe-Ray-Me! It's a joke; and I'm a gifted person."

This discovery of the adaptability of our names was so startlingthat I exclaimed:

"Good Lord! How mad!"

Penny only shrugged his shoulders, and generally plumed himself onhis little success. And Doe said:

"Has that only just dawned on you?"

"Observe," sneered Penny. "The Gray Doe is jealous. He would likethe fame of having made this fine jest. So he pretends he thought ofit long ago. He bags it."

"Not worth bagging," suggested Doe, who was pulling a lock of hispale hair over his forehead, and trying with elevated eye-brows tosurvey it critically. His feet were resting on a seat in front ofhim, and his trousers were well pulled up, so as to show a certaintract of decent sock. Penny scanned him as though his veryappearance were nauseating.

"Well, why did you bag it?"

"I didn't."

"I say, you're a bit of a liar, aren't you?"

"Well, if I'm a bit of a liar, you're a lot of one."

"My dear little boy," said Penny, with intent to hurt, "we all knowthe reputation for lying you had at your last school."

As we had all been at Kensingtowe's Preparatory School together, Iwas in a position to know that this was rather wild, andremonstrated with him.

"I say, that's a bit sticky, isn't it?"

The nobility of my interference impressed me as I made it.Meanwhile the angry blood mounted to Doe's face, but he carelesslyreplied:

"You show what a horrible liar you are by your last remark. I neversaid your beastly idea was mine; and because you accused me of doingso, and I said I didn't, you call me a liar: which is a dirty lie,if you like. But of course one expects lies from you."

"That may be," rejoined Pennybet. "But you know you don't wash."

Doe parried this thrust with a sarcastic acquiescence.

"No, I know I don't—never did—don't believe in washing."

Now Penny was out to hurt. A mere youngster had presumed to argueand be cheeky with him: and discipline must be maintained. To thisend there must be punishment; and punishment, to be effective, musthurt. So he adopted a new line, and with his clever strategy stroveto enlist my support by deigning to couple my name with his.

"At any rate," he drawled, "Ray and I don't toady to Radley."

This poisonous little remark requires some explanation. Mr. Radley,the assistant house-master at Bramhall House, was a hard master, whowould have been hated for his insufferable conceptions ofdiscipline, had he not been the finest bat in the Middlesex team.Just about this time there was a libel current that he made afavourite of Edgar Doe because he was pretty. "Doe," I had oncesaid, "Radley's rather keen on you, isn't he?" And Doe had turnedred and scoffed: "How absolutely silly—but, I say, do you reallythink so?" Seeing that he found pleasure in the insinuation, I hadfollowed it up with chaff, upon which he had suddenly cut up rough,and left me in a pique.

This morning, as Penny pricked him with this poisoned fang, Doebegan to feel that for the moment he was alone amongst us three; andodd-man-out. He put a tentative question to me, designed to seewhether I were siding with him or with the foe.

"Now, Ray, isn't that the dirtiest lie he's told so far?"

"No," I said. I was still under the glamour of having been appealedto by the forceful personality of Pennybet; and, besides, itcertainly wasn't.

"Oh, of course you'd agree with anything Penny said, if he askedyou to. But you know you don't really believe I ever sucked up toRadley."

This rejoinder was bad tactics, for by its blow at my face it forcedme to take sides against him in the quarrel. So I answered:

"Rather! Why, you always do."

"Dir-dirty liar!"

"Ha-ha!" laughed Penny. He saw that he had been successful in hislatest thrust, and set himself to push home the advantage. Thedominance of his position must be secured at all costs. He let downhis heavy-lashed eyelids, as though, for his part, he only desired apeaceful sleep, and said: "Ha-ha! Ray, that friend of yours islosing his temper. He's terribly vicious. Mind he doesn't scratch."

Doe's parted lips came suddenly together, his face got red, and hemoved impatiently as he sat. But he said nothing, either because thewords would not come, or lest something more unmanly should.

"Ray," pursued the tormentor, "I think that friend of yours is goingto blub."

Doe left his seat, and stood upon his feet, his lips set in one firmline. He tossed his hair off his forehead, and, keeping his faceaverted from our gaze lest we should detect any moisture about theeyes, opened a desk, and selected the books he would require. Theywere books over which he had scrawled with flourishes:

and, when he had placed them on his arm, he walked towards the doorwith his face still turned away from us.

"Oh, don't go, Doe. Don't be a sloppy ass," I said, feeling that Ihad been fairly trapped into deserting a fellow-victim, and backingour common tyrant.

My appeal Doe treated as though he had not heard it; and Penny,certain that his victory was won, and that he had no further needof my support, kicked it away with the sneer: "Hit Doe, and Ray'sbruised! What a David and Jonathan we're going to be! How we agreelike steak and kidney!... Rather a nice expression, that."

Penny's commentary was thus turned inwards upon himself, in anaffectionate criticism of his vocabulary, to show the utterdetachment of his interest from the pathetic exit of Edgar Doe. Fornow Doe had reached the door, which he opened, passed, and slammed.In a twinkling I had opened it again, and was looking down thecorridor. There was no sign of my friend anywhere. The moment he hadslammed the door he must have run.

I returned to the preparation room, and Penny sighed, as much as tosay: "What a pity little boys are so petulant and quarrelsome." Butthe victory was his, as it always was, and he could think of otherthings. There was a clock on the wall behind him, but, toocomfortable to turn his head, he asked me:

"What's the beastly?"

I glanced at the clock, and intimated, sulkily enough, that thebeastly was twenty minutes past nine. He groaned.

"Oh! Ah! An hour's sweat with Radley. Oh, hang! Blow! Damn!"

He stood up, stretched himself, yawned, apologised, got his books,and occasionally tossed a remark to me, as if he were quite unawarethat I was not only trying to sulk, but also badly wanted him toknow it. As I looked for my books, I sought for the rudest and mostpainful insult I could offer him. My duty to Doe demanded that itshould be something quite uncommon. And from a really fine selectionI had just chosen: "You're the biggest liar I've ever met, and, forall I know, you're as big a thief," when I turned round and found hewas gone. Pennybet always left the field as its master.

§2

Within Radley's spacious class-room some twenty of us took our wayto our desks. Radley mounted his low platform, and, resting hisknuckles on his writing-table, gazed down upon us. He was a man ofover six feet, with the shoulders, chest, and waist of a forcingbatsman. His neck, perhaps, was a little too big, the fault of apowerful frame; and the wrist that came below his cuff was such thatit made us wonder what was the size of his forearm. His mouth washard, and set above a squaring chin, so that you thought himrelentless, till his grey eyes shook your judgment.

"Let me see," he said, as he stood, looking down upon us, "youshould come to me for both periods this morning. Well, I shallprobably be away all the second period. You will come to thisclass-room as usual, and Herr Reinhardt will take you in French."

"Oh, joy!" I muttered. Boys whom Radley could not see flipped theirfingers to express delight. Others lifted up the lids of theirdesks, and behind these screens went through a pantomime thatsuggested pleasure at good news. The fact was that the announcementthat we were to have second period with the German, Reinhardt, wasas good as promising us a holiday. Nay, it was rather better; for,in an unexpected holiday, we might have been at a loss what to do,whereas under Reinhardt we had no doubt—we played the fool.

"And now get on with your work," concluded Radley.

We got on with it, knowing that it was only for a short time that weneed work that morning.

It was writing work I know, for, after a while, I had a notesurreptitiously passed to me between folded blotting-paper. The notebore in Doe's ambitiously ornate writing the alarming statement: "Ishall never like you so much after what you said this morning YoursEdgar Gray Doe." There was room for me to pen an answer, and in mygreat round characters I wrote: "I never really meant anything andafter you left I tried to be rude to Penny but he'd gone and willyou still be my chum Yours S. Ray." (My real name was Rupert, but Iwas sometimes nicknamed "Sonny Ray" from the sensational news, whichhad leaked out, that my mother so called me, and I took pleasure insigning myself "S. Ray.") My handsome apology was passed back to theoffended party, and in due course the paper returned to me, bearinghis reply: "I don't know We must talk it over, but don't tell anyoneYours Edgar Gray Doe." That was the last sentence destined to bewritten on this human document, for Radley, without looking up fromthe exercise he was correcting, said quietly:

"In the space of the last five minutes Doe has twice correspondedwith Ray, and Ray has once replied to Doe. Now both Ray and Doe willcome up here with the letters."

To the accompaniment of a titter or two, Ray and Doe came up, Itrying to look defiantly indifferent to the fact that he was goingto read my silly remarks, and Doe with his lips firmly together, andhis fair hair the fairer for the blush upon his forehead and cheeks.

Radley left us standing by his desk, while at his leisure hefinished his correcting; then, still without looking up, he ordered:

"Hand over the letters."

A little doggedly I passed over the single sheet of paper feelingsome absurd satisfaction that, since he evidently thought there wereseveral sheets involved, his uncanny knowledge was at least wrong inone particular. Doe, on my right hand, turned redder and redder tosee the paper going beneath the master's eye, and made a few nervousgrimaces. Radley read the correspondence pitilessly; and, with hishard mouth unrelaxed, turned first on Doe, as though sizing him up,and then on me. He stared at my face till I felt fidgety, and mymind, which always in moments of excitement ran down most ridiculousavenues, framed the sentence: "Don't stare, because it's rude," atwhich involuntary thought I scarcely restrained a nervous titter.After this critical inspection, Radley murmured:

"Yes, talk your quarrel over. The bands of friendship mustn't snapat a breath."

As he said this, Doe edged closer to me, and I wondered if Radleywas a decent chap.

"But why do you sign yourself 'S. Ray'?"

Now my blush outclassed anything Doe had yet produced, and I lookedin dumb confusion towards my friend. Radley refrained from forcingthe question, but pursued with brutal humour:

"Well, there's nothing like suffering together to cement afriendship. Doe, put out your knuckles."

Radley was ever a man of surprises. This was the first time he hadinvited the use of our knuckles for his punitive practices. Doeproffered four of those on the back of his narrow, cream-colouredright hand. He did it readily enough, but trembled a little, and theblush that had disappeared returned at a rush to his neck. Radleytook his ruler, and struck the knuckles with a very sharp rap. Doe'slips snapped together and remained together,—and that was all.

"And Ray," invited Radley.

I offered the back of my right hand, and, copying my friend, kept mylips well closed. My eyes had shut themselves nervously, when Iheard a clatter, and realised that Radley had dropped his ruler.Leaving my right hand extended for punishment, I stooped down,picked up the ruler with my left, and gave it back to Radley.Perhaps the blood that now coloured my face was partly due to thisstooping. Radley smiled. It was his habit to become suddenly gentleafter being hard. One second, his hard mouth would frame hardthings; another second, and his grey eyes would redress the balance.

"Ray, you disarm me," he said. "Go to your seats, both of you."

Back we walked abreast to our places, Doe palpably annoyed that hehad not been the one to pick up the ruler. He was a romantic youthand would have liked to occupy my picturesque and rather heroicposition.

"Why didn't you let me pick up the ruler?" he whispered. "You knew Iwanted to."

This utterly senseless remark I had no opportunity of answering, soI determined to sulk with Doe, as soon as the interval shouldarrive. When, however, the bell rang for that ten-minutes'excitement, I forgot everything in the glee of thinking that thesecond period would be spent with Herr Reinhardt. Ten minutes to go,and then—and then, Mr. Cæsar!

§3

In the long corridor, on to which Radley's class-room opened,gathered our elated form, awaiting the arrival of Herr Reinhardt. Hewas late. He always was: and it was a mistake to be so, for it gaveus the opportunity, when he drew near, of asking one another thetime in French: "Kell er eight eel? Onze er ay dammy. Wee, wee."

Cæsar Reinhardt, the German, remains upon my mind chiefly as beingutterly unlike a German: he was a long man, very deaf, with droopingEnglish moustaches, and such obviously weak eyes that now, wheneverLeah's little eye-trouble is read in Genesis, I always think ofReinhardt. But I think of him as "Mr. Cæsar." Why "Mr. Cæsar" andnot purely "Cæsar" I cannot explain, but the "Mr." was inseparablefrom the nickname. Good Mr. Cæsar was misplaced in his profession.Had he not been obliged to spend his working life in the position ofone who has just been made to look a fool, he would have been anattractive and lovable person. He had the most beautiful tenorvoice, which, when he spoke was like liquid silver, and, when hesang elaborate opera passages, made one see glorious wrought-steelgateways of heavenly palaces. This inefficient master owed hisposition to the great vogue enjoyed by his books: "Reinhardt'sGerman Conversation," "Reinhardt's French Pieces," and others. Butthe boys, by common consent, decided not to identify this "CæsarReinhardt, Modern Language Master at Kensingtowe School" with theirown dear Mr. Cæsar. Thus, you see, in their ignorance, they wereable to bring up the Reinhardt works to Mr. Cæsar, and say withworried brows: "Here, sir. This bally book's all wrong"; "I couldwrite a better book than this myself, sir"; "The Johnny who wrotethis book, sir—well, st. st." Pennybet, however, used to trembleon the brink of identification, when he made the idiotic mistake ofsaying: "Shall I bring up my Cæsar, sir,—I mean, my Reinhardt?"

The jubilation of our class, as we lolled or clog-danced in thecorridor, had need to be organised into some systematic fooling; andfor once in a way, the boys accepted a suggestion of mine.

"Let's all hum 'God Save the King' exactly at twelve o'clock. Mr.Cæsar won't hear; he's too deaf."

Immediately several boys started to sing the popular air inquestion, and others went for a slide along the corridor, both ofwhich performances are generally construed as meaning: "Right-ho!"

"It's crude," commented Penny, "but I'll not interfere. I mighteven help you—who knows? And here comes Mr. Cæsar. Ah, wee, wee."

It was our custom to race in a body along the corridor to meet Mr.Cæsar, and to arrive breathless at his side, where we would fight towalk, one on his right hand, and another on his left. In the courseof a brilliant struggle several boys would be prostrated, notunwillingly. We would then escort him in triumph to his door, andall offer to turn the lock, crying: "Let me have the key, sir.""Do let me, sir." "You never let me, sir—dashed unfair." Whensomeone had secured the key, he would fling wide the door, as thoughto usher in all the kings of Asia, but promptly spoil this courtlyaction by racing after the door ere it banged against the wall,holding it in an iron grip like a runaway horse, and pantinghorribly at the strain. This morning I was honoured with the key. Iexamined it and saw that it was stuffed up with dirt and there wouldbe some delay outside the class-room door while the key underwentalterations and repairs.

"Has any boy," I asked, "a pin?"

None had; but Pennybet offered to go to Bramhall House in search ofone. He could do it in twenty minutes, he said.

"Dear me, how annoying!" I shook the key, I hammered it, I blew downit till it gave forth a shrill whistle, and Penny said: "Off side."And then I giggled into the key.

Don't think Mr. Cæsar tolerated all this without a mild protest. Idistinctly remember his saying in his silvery voice: "Give it to me,Ray. I'll do it," and my replying, as I looked up into his delicateeyes: "No, it's all right, sir. You leave it to me, sir."

In due course I threw open the door with a triumphant "There!" Thedoor hit the side-wall with a bang that upset the nervous systems ofneighbouring boys, who felt a little faint, had hysterics, andrecovered. Mr. Cæsar, feeling that the class was a trifle unpunctualin starting, hurriedly entered.

Then Pennybet distinguished himself. He laid his books unconcernedlyon the master's desk, and walked with a dandy's dignity to thewindow. Having surveyed the view with a critical air, he faced roundand addressed Mr. Cæsar courteously: "May I shut the window for you,sir?" adding in a lower tone that he was always willing to oblige.Without waiting for the permission to be granted, he turned roundagain and, pulling up each sleeve that his cuffs might not be soiledin the operation, proceeded to turn the handle, by means of whichthe lofty window was closed.

Now there were four long windows in a row, and they all neededshutting—this beautiful summer morning. None of us was to beoutdone in politeness by Penny; and all rushed to the covetedhandles so as to be first in shutting the remaining windows. Theelement of competition and the steeplechasing methods necessary, ifwe were to surmount the intervening desks, made it all ratherexciting. Several boys, converging from different directions,arrived at the handles at the same time. It was natural, then, thata certain amount of discussion should follow as to whose right itwas to shut the windows, and that the various little assembliesdebating the point should go and refer the question simultaneouslyto Mr. Cæsar.

Mr. Cæsar gave his answer with some emphasis:

"Will—you—all—sit—down?"

This rhetorical question being in the nature of a command, wesullenly complied, tossing our heads to show our sense of theindignity to which we had been submitted. Pennybet, meanwhile,continued to turn his handle in a leisurely fashion and touch hisforehead like an organ-grinder.

Mr. Cæsar looked at him angrily and pathetically, conscious of hispowerlessness.

"Que faites vous, Pennybet? Asseyez vous toute suite!"

"Yes, sir," answered Penny, who had no sympathy with German, French,or any of these ludicrous languages. "Yes, sir, we had two, and onedied."

"Que voulez vous dire? Allez à votre place!"

"It's all right, sir, if you cross your fingers," suggested Penny.

Poor Mr. Cæsar made a movement, as though he would go and push themutineer to his place.

"You will go to your seat immediately, Pennybet," he ordered.

Penny co*cked his head on one side. "Oh, sir," said hereproachfully.

Our friend always expressed his sense of injustice with this sad"Oh, sir," and, as he generally detected a vein of injustice inany demand made upon him, the expression was of frequent occurrence.

Mr. Cæsar first moved his lips incompetently, and then, with astudied slowness that was meant to sound imperious, began:

"When I say 'Sit'—"

"You mean 'Sit,'" explained Penny promptly.

"That's impertinence."

But Penny had his head thrown back, and was gazing out of eyes,curtained by the fall of heavy-fringed lids, at the ceiling.

"Pennybet," cried his master, his very voice apprehensive, "will youhave the goodness to attend?"

"Oh, ah, yes, sir," agreed Penny, awaking from his reverie.

"You haven't the manners of a savage, boy."

"Oh, sir."

Mr. Cæsar bit his lip, and his silver voice would scarcely come.

"Or of a pig!"

"Would a pig have manners, sir?" corrected Penny.

"That's consummate impudence!"

"Oh, is it, sir?" Penny's tone suggested that he was grateful forthe enlightenment. Henceforth he would not be in two minds on thesubject.

Mr. Cæsar, repulsed again by the more powerful character of the boy,tried to cover the feebleness of his position by sounding asthreatening as possible.

"Go to your seat at once! The impudence of this class isinsufferable!"

Loud murmurs of dissent from twenty boys greeted this aspersion. Theclass resolved itself into an Opposition, inspired by one object,which was to repudiate aspersions. Penny excellently voiced theirresentment.

"Oh, sir." (Opposition cheers.)

Mr. Cæsar hurled his chair behind him, and approached very close toPenny.

"Will you go to your seat at once?"

Penny, with all his power, was still a boy; and for a moment thechild in him flinched before the exceedingly close approach of Mr.Cæsar. But the next minute he looked up at the still open window;shivered, and shuddered; rubbed his cold hands (this beautifulsummer morning); buttoned himself up warmly; went to the master'sdesk for his books; dropped them one after another; blew on hisnumbed fingers to infuse a little warmth into them, contriving awhistle, and all the time looking most rebukingly at his tyrannicalmaster; picked up four books and dropped two of them; picked upthose and dropped one more; walked to his seat in high sorrow, andbanged the whole lot of the books down upon the desk and floor in anappalling cataract, as the full cruelty of Mr. Cæsar's treatmentcame suddenly home to him.

When we recovered from this shattering explosion of Penny's books, alittle quiet work would have begun, had not Doe, with his romanticimagination lit by the glow of Penny's audacity, started to cravethe notoriety of being likewise a leader of men. He rose from hisdesk, approached Mr. Cæsar, and extended his hand with a belated"Good morning, sir."

Poor Mr. Cæsar, in the kindliness of his heart, was touched by Doe'sgraceful action, and grasped the proffered hand, saying: "Goodmorning, Doe." By this time the whole class was arranged in atolerably straight line behind Doe, and waiting to go through theceremony of shaking hands.

Work commenced at about twenty minutes to twelve, and, when twelveshould come, we were to render, according to programme, "God Savethe King," with some delicate humming. For want of something betterto do, I wrote a clause of the exercise set. Mr. Cæsar's back wasnow turned and he was studying a wall-map.

"Shall I?"

"Yes, rather!"

These two whispered sentences I heard from behind me. InquisitivelyI turned round to see what simmered there.

"Keep working, you fool!" hissed my neighbour.

Events of some moment were happening in the rear. It had occurred toseveral that the hands of the clock might be encouraged with aslight push to hasten their journey over the next few minutes. Doe,half anxious to be the daring one to do it, half nervous of theconsequences, had whispered: "Shall I?" And his advisers hadanswered: "Yes, rather!" He threw down a piece of blotting paper,and tip-toed towards it, as though to pick it up. Seeing with aside-glance that Mr. Cæsar's back was still turned, he mounted aform, and pushed on the clock's hands. Then, hurriedly gettingdown, he flew back nervously to his seat, where he pretended to berapidly writing.

Hearing these slithy and suggestive movements, I declined to remainany longer ignorant of their meaning. After all, I had suggested the"whole bally business," and was entitled to know the means selectedfor its conduct. So round went my inquisitive head. Then I shook inmy glee. Someone had pushed on the hands of the clock, and it wasthree minutes to twelve. There was a rustle of excitement in theroom. The silence of expectancy followed. "Two-minutes-to" narrowedinto "One-minute-to"; and after a premonitory click, which producedsufficient excitement to interfere with our breath, the clock strucktwelve.

Inasmuch as I occupied a very favourable position, I got up toconduct proceedings. I faced the class, stretched out my right hand,which held a pen by way of a baton, and whispered: "One. Two.Three."

It began. I have often wondered since how I could have been so wrongin my calculations. I had estimated that, if we all hummed, therewould result a gentle murmur. I never dreamt that each of the twentyboys would respond so splendidly to my appeal. Instead of a gentlemurmur, the National Hymn was opened with extraordinary volume andspirit.

My first instinct was the low one of self-preservation. Feeling nodesire to play a leading part in this terrible outbreak, I hastilysat down with a view to resuming my studies. Unfortunately I satdown too heavily, and there was the noise of a bump, which served tobring the performance to an effective conclusion. My books clatteredto the floor, and Mr. Cæsar turned on me with a cry of wrath.

"Ray, what are you doing?"

It was a sudden and awkward question; and, for a second, I was at aloss for words to express to my satisfaction what I was doing. Pennyseemed disappointed at my declension into disgrace, and murmuredreproachfully: "O Rupert, my little Rupert, st. st." I saw thatthe game was up. Mr. Cæsar had inquired what I was doing; and asurvey of what I was doing showed me that, between some antecedentmovements and some subsequent effects, my central procedure was aconducting of the class. So, very red but trying to be impudent, Isaid as much, after first turning round and making an unpleasantface at Penny.

"Conducting, sir," I explained, as though nothing could be morenatural at twelve o'clock.

"Conducting!" said Mr. Cæsar. "Well, you may be able to conduct theclass, but you certainly cannot conduct yourself."

This resembling a joke, the class expressed its appreciation in aprolonged and uproarious laugh. It was a stupendous laugh. It hadfine crescendo and diminuendo passages, and only died hard, after achain of intermittent "Ha-ha's." Then it had a gloriousresurrection, but faded at last into the distance, a few stray"Ha-ha's" from Pennybet bringing up the rear.

Mr. Cæsar trembled with impotent passion, his weak eyes eloquentwith anger and suffering.

"Are you responsible for this outrage, Ray?"

I looked down and muttered: "It was my suggestion, sir."

"Then you shall suffer for it. Who has tampered with the clock?"

There was no answer, and every boy looked at the remainder of theclass to show his ignorance of the whole matter. Doe glanced fromone to another for instructions. Some by facial movements suggestedan avowal of his part, but he whispered: "Not yet," and waited,blushing.

"Then the whole class shall do two hours' extra work."

The words were scarcely out of Mr. Cæsar's mouth, before every boywas protesting. I caught above the confusion such complaints as:"Oh, sir!" "But really, sir," or a more sullen: "I never touchedthe beastly clock!" or even a frank: "I won't do it." I observedthat Penny was taking advantage of the noise to deliver an emotionalsermon, which he accompanied with passionate gestures and concludedby turning eastward and profanely repeating the ascription: "And nowto God the Father—"

A sudden silence, and every boy sits awkwardly in his place.Radley's tall figure stood in the room: and the door was being shutby his hand. I kept my eyes fixed on him. I was changed. I no longerfelt disorderly nor impudent: for disorderliness and impudence in mewere but unnatural efforts to copy Pennybet, that master-fool. Idropped into my natural self, a thing of shyness and diffidence. Iwas not conscious of any ill-will towards Radley for returning tohis class-room, when he was not expected; it was just a piece of badfortune for me. I was about to be "whacked," I knew; and, though Idid not move, I felt strange emotions within me. Certainly I was alittle afraid, for Radley whacked harder than they all.

And then, as usual, my brain ran down a wildly irrelevant course. Ireflected that the height of my ambition would be reached, if Icould grow into as tall a man as Radley. My frame, at present, gaveno promise of developing into that of a very tall man; buthenceforth I would do regular physical exercises of a stretchingcharacter, and eschew all evils that retarded the growth. In theenthusiasm of a new aim, towards which I would start this very day,I almost forgot my present embarrassing position. Hasty calculationsfollowed as to how much I would have to grow each year. Let me see,how old was I? Just thirteen. How many years to grow in?

"Who is the ringleader of this?" asked Radley..

I stood up and whispered: "Me, sir."

Somehow a ready acknowledgment seemed to agree with my latestambition.

"Then come and stand out here. You know you ought to be caned, soyou'll thoroughly enjoy it. In fact, being a decent boy, you'd bemiserable without it."

Here Mr. Cæsar, who bore no grudge against Radley for assuming thereins of command, whispered to him; and Radley asked the class:

"Who touched the clock?"

"I did, sir."

It was Doe's voice.

"Why didn't you say so before?"

"I was just going to when you came in."

Radley looked straight into the brown eyes of the boy who wassupposed to be his favourite, and Doe looked back unshiftingly; hehad heard those condemned, who did not look people straight in theface, and I fancy he rather exaggerated his steady return gaze.

"I'm sure you were," said Radley.

Then the foreman of the other boys got up.

"Some of us suggested it to Doe, sir."

"Very well, you will have the punishment of seeing him suffer forit."

And thereupon, without waiting to be told, Doe left his desk, andcame and stood by me. It was a theatrical action, such as only hewould have done, and our master concealed his surprise, if he feltany, by an impassive face.

"I shall now cane these two boys," he said with cold-bloodeddirectness.

"Certainly," whispered Penny.

Both corners of my mouth went down in a grim resignation. Doe's lipspressed themselves firmly together, and his eyelids trembled. Mr.Cæsar, ever generous, looked through the window over green lawns andflower-beds. Radley went to his cupboard, and took out a cane.

"Bend over, Ray."

"Certainly," muttered Penny again. "Bend over."

I bent over, resting my hands on my knees. Radley was a cricketerwith a big reputation for cutting and driving; and three drives,right in the middle of the cane, convinced me what a first-classh*tter he was. At the fourth, an especially resounding one, Pennywhistled a soft and prolonged whistle of amazement, and murmured:"Well, that's a boundary, anyway." And I heard suppressed giggles,and knew that my class-fellows were enjoying the exquisite agony offorcing back their laughter.

When my performance was over, the second victim, Edgar Doe, with thesteel calm of a French aristocrat, which he affected underpunishment, walked to the spot where I had been operated on. He bentover (again without being told to do so), and only spoiled his proudsubmission by telegraphing to Radley one uncontrolled look ofpathetic appeal like the glance of a faithful dog. Radley, notnoticing these unnerving actions, or possibly a little annoyed bythem, administered justice severely enough for Doe, proud as he was,to wince slightly at every cut. Then he put his cane away, andissued, as before, his little ration of gentleness.

"You're two plucky boys," he said.

§4

That night I measured my barefoot height against the dormitory wall,and made a deep pencil-mark thereon: which done, I reached up to agreat height, and made a mark to represent Radley. After thesepreliminaries there was nothing to do but to wait developments. Onepractice which aided growth was to lie full-length in bed instead ofcurled up. So, after I had cut with nail-scissors the few fair hairsfrom my breast and calves, in an endeavour to encourage a plentifulcrop like that which added manliness to Pennybet's darkerform—after this delicate, operation, I got between the sheets, andstraightened out my limbs with a considerable effort of the will.Later on I forced them down again, when I found that my knees hadonce more strayed up to my chin.

Our dormitory at Bramhall House was a long many-windowed room,containing thirty beds, Edgar Doe's being on my left. He suddenlymade reference to our punishment of the morning.

"I wonder why he gave me a worse dose than you."

"Yes, he did let into you," I said cheerfully.

Doe flushed, and continued talking so as to be heard only by me.

"If it had been any other master, I'd have been mad with him. Fancy,practically two whackings in a morning; one on the knuckles and oneon the—and the other. But you can't hate Radley, can you?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said, with grave doubts.

There was a pause. But a desire to tell confidences had beenbegotten of warm bed and darkness, and my friend soon proceeded:

"It's funny, Rupert, but I like talking to you better than to any ofthe other chaps. I feel I can tell you things I wouldn't tellanybody else. Do you know, I really think I like Radley better thananyone else in the world. I simply loved being whacked by him."

I pulled the clothes off my head that I might see the extraordinarycreature that was talking to me. A dim light always burned near ourbeds, and by it I was able to see that Doe was very red and clearlywishing he had not made his last remark. My immediate desire, onwitnessing his discomfiture, was to put him at his ease bypretending that I saw nothing unusual in the words. So I quicklyevolved a very casual question.

"What! Better than your father and mother?"

"Well, you see—" and he shifted uneasily—"you know perfectly wellthat my father and mother are dead."

"O law!" I said.

Awkwardly the conversation dropped. And, as I lay upon my pillow,down went my brain along a line of wandering thoughts. Doe's remark,I reflected, was like that of a school-girl who adored her mistress.Perhaps Doe was a girl. After all, I had no certain knowledge thathe wasn't a girl with his hair cut short. I pictured him, then, withhis hair, paler than straw, reaching down beneath his shoulders, andwith his brown eyes and parted lips wearing a feminine appearance.As I produced this strange figure, I began to feel, somewhere in theregion of my waist, motions of calf-love for the girl Doe that I hadcreated. But, as Doe's prowess at cricket asserted itself upon mymind, his gender became conclusively established, and—ah, well, Iwas half asleep.

But, so strange were the processes of my childish mind that thisfeeling of love at first sight for the girl Doe, who never existed,I count as one of the strongest forces that helped to create mylater affection for the real Edgar Gray Doe.

"I think you and I must have been intended to come together,Rupert," I heard him saying later on, as I was fast dozing off. "Is'pose that's why we were called Doe and Ray."

"Er," I dreamily assented from beneath the bedclothes.

And still later a voice said:

"It was rather fun being whacked side by side, being twins."

From a great distance I heard it, as I listened upon the frontier ofsleep. And, recalling without any effort Radley's words: "There'snothing like suffering together to cement a friendship," I crossedthe frontier. All coiled up again, my knees nearly touching my chin,I passed into the country of dreams.

CHAPTER II

RUPERT OPENS A GREAT WAR

§1

Poor Mr. Cæsar, with the weak eyes! He had left his class-room doorunlocked. Golly, so he had! And since the bell had only justceased to echo, and Mr. Cæsar would certainly be some minutes late,what was to stop us from conducting a few operations within theclass-room? Under the command of Pennybet, we entered the room andwith due respect lifted the master's large writing-desk from itslittle platform, and carried it to the further end of the room. Weleft him his armchair, decently disposed upon the platform, thinkingit would be ungenerous to keep him standing through an hour'slesson.

Then we guiltily stole out of the class-room, closed the door, andlined up in the corridor, as smartly as a squad of regulars. Aidedby Penny's hand, we right-dressed. We kept our eyes front, headserect, and heels together. We braced ourselves up still better whenMr. Cæsar appeared at the end of the corridor. None of us spoke normoved. A few fools like myself giggled nasally, and were promptlysubdued: "Don't spoil it all, you stinking fish!"

On came the gallant Mr. Cæsar, his eyes mutely inquiring the reasonfor this ominous quiet. He reached the door with no sign from any ofus that we were aware of a new arrival. He tried the lock with hiskey and, after an expression of surprise to find it already turned,opened the door and walked in. Immediately, in accordance with apre-arranged code of signals, Penny dropped one book. Weright-turned. We did it in faultless time, turning as one man, andeach of us bringing his left foot with a brisk stamp on the floor.Then, a suitable silence having ensued, Penny dropped two books.Instantly we obeyed. In single file, our left feet stampingrhythmically, with heads erect and eyes front, we marched after Mr.Cæsar, and gradually diverged from one another till each man stoodmarking time at his particular desk. At this point Penny trippedover his left heel, and in an unfortunate accident flung all hisbooks on to the floor. Abruptly, and like machines, we sat down. Theroom shook.

It was difficult for our master to know what to do; as there was noreal reason to associate our military movements with Penny's seriesof little accidents, and there was certainly no fault to find withour orderly entry into the class-room. So he did nothing beyondsadly sweeping us with his eyes. And then he inquired:

"Where's my desk?"

Goodness gracious, where could his great desk be? We got out of ourseats, foreseeing a long search. We began by opening our own desksand looking inside. Certain high lockers that stood against the wallwe opened. It was in none of them. We pulled ourselves up and lookedalong the top of these lockers. It was not there. Penny did three orfour of these "pull-ups" by way of extending his biceps. We lookedalong the walls and under the forms. Penny created a littleexcitement by declaring that "he thought he saw it then." And Doeopened the door and looked up and down the corridor.

"It's not anywhere in the corridor," said he. The whole class felthe might be mistaken, and went to the door to satisfy themselves.

Mr. Cæsar affected a little sarcasm.

"Is not that it at the other end of the room?"

We turned round and gazed down the direction in which he waslooking. Yes, there was surely something there. Penny flung up hishand and cried:

"Please, teacher, I've found it."

"Well," began Mr. Cæsar, "if one or two of you would bring the deskup here—"

If one or two of us would! Why, we all would—all twenty of us. Wetook off our coats and, folding them carefully, laid them on thedesks. We rolled up our shirt-sleeves above the elbows, disclosing alot of white, childish forearms. We spat on our hands and rubbedthem together. We did a little spitting on one another's hands.Then we hustled and crowded round the desk. We lifted it off theground, brought it a foot or two, and dropped it heavily. Phew! itwas hard work. We took out our handkerchiefs, and wiped the sweatfrom our brows. Anyone who had no handkerchief borrowed from someonewho had finished with his. Returning to our task, we carried thedesk a little nearer and dropped it. Doe got a serious splinter inhis hand, and we all pulled it out for him. Puffing and groaning aswe dragged the unwieldy desk, we approached the dais on which itmust be placed. We all stepped upon the dais (slightly incommodingMr. Cæsar, who was standing there), and lifted up one end of thedesk so that the pens and pencils rattled inside. One pull, my lads,and the desk was half on the platform and half on the floor. Leavingit in this inclined position, we stepped down to the floor again,and three of us placed our shoulders against the lower end, whilethe rest scrummed down, Rugby fashion, in row upon row behind oneanother. A good co-operative shove, accompanied by murmurs of"Coming on your right, forwards; heel it out, whites; break away,forwards!" and up she went, a diagonal route into the air.Unfortunately, we all raised our heads at the same time to see howmuch further she had to go, and back she tobogganed again on to theshins of the boys in the front row. They declared they werehenceforth incapacitated for life.

We got it on to the platform at last with a good run, but theenthusiasm of the back row of scrummers, who apparently thought thetask could not be completed till they were off the floor and on theplatform, was so strong that the desk was pushed much too far, andtoppled over the further side of the platform.

This was too much. My suppressed giggling burst like a grenade intouncontrolled laughter. Then I said: "I'm sorry, sir."

§2

But this disorder is a strong dish, and we've talked about quite asmuch as is good for us. So let us change the hour and visit anotherclass-room, where there are no rebellions, but neverthelessarithmetic and trouble—and Ray and Doe and Pennybet. And here is adear little master in charge. It is Mr. Fillet, the housemaster ofBramhall House, where, as you know, we were paying guests—a fatlittle man with a bald pate, a soft red face, a pretty littlechestnut beard, and an ugly little stutter in his speech. Bless him,the dear little man, we called him Carpet Slippers. This was becauseone of his two chief attributes was to be always in carpet slippers.The other attribute was to be always round a corner.

Fillet, or Carpet Slippers, disliked his young boarder, Rupert Ray.The reason is soon told. One night, when I was out of my bed andgambolling in pyjamas about the first story of his house, I lookedup the well of the staircase and saw the little shadow of someoneparading the landing above. Thinking it to be a boy, I called out ina stage-whisper: "Is that old pig, Carpet Slippers, up there?" And adear little chestnut beard and a smile came over the balusters,accompanied by a voice: "Yes, h-h-here he is. Wh-what do you wantwith him?"

It was Fillet, in carpet slippers, and round a corner.

And then in his class-room, this day, I got a sum wrong. I deducedthat in a certain battle "point 64" of a soldier remained wounded onthe field, while "point 36" escaped with the retreating army unhurt.This did not seem a satisfactory conclusion either to the sum or tothe soldier, and I was not surprised, on looking up the answer, tofind that I was wrong. There were two methods of detecting theerror: one was to work through the sum again, the other was tosubmit it to Fillet for revision. The latter seemed the less irksomescheme, and in a sinister moment—heavens! how pregnant withconsequences it was—I left my desk, approached Carpet Slippers, andlaid the trouble before him.

Now Fillet was in the worst of tempers, having been just incensed bya boy who had declared that two gills equalled one pint, two pintsone quart, and two quarts one rod, pole, or perch. So, when Ibrought my sum up and giggled at the answer, he looked at me as ifhe neither liked me nor desired that I should ever like him. Then heindulged in cheap sarcasms. This he was wont to do, and, afteremitting them through his silky beard, he would draw in his breaththrough parted teeth, as a child does when it has the taste ofpeppermint in its mouth.

"I-I-I t-tell you, a boy in a kindergarten could get it right—ag-g-guttersnipe could. I-I-I-I—"

This was so much like what they yell from a fire-engine that, thoughI struggled hard, I could not contain a giggle.

"I-I-I'll do it for you."

He got it wrong, which elicited a bursting giggle from me. Filletturned on me like a barking dog.

"Go to your place, boy, and take your vulgar guffaws with you!"

Surprised at Fillet's taking it to heart in this way, I went, muchabashed, to my seat, and tried to control my fit of giggling. But itso possessed me that finally it made a very horrible noise in mynose. Carpet Slippers raised his little head that was a hybridbetween a peach and a billiard ball—a peach as to the face, and abilliard ball as to the cranium—and when he saw me sitting withlips tightly set and my desk trembling with my internal laughter,anger put a fresh coating of red upon both peach and ball. But hetook no action at present.

"I-I'll d-do one of these sums on the board for you."

Getting up, he turned his back on us and, facing the board, wrotewith his chalk the number 10. Now, as he wrote on a level with hiseyes, his fat little head quite eclipsed his writing. So, simply toshow that I was no longer laughing, I called out loudly:

"What number, sir?"

Round swung Carpet Slippers, his peach-face assuming the tint of atomato.

"What number? I-I'll t-teach you to ask 'what number' when I'vewritten '10' on the board. I-I've heard what you do in otherclass-rooms. D-don't think you're going to introduce yourhooliganism here. Go and ask the p-porter to let me have a cane."

The boys pricked up their ears and looked at me. Penny let his jawdrop in amazement and, leaving his mouth open, maintained anexpression like that of the village idiot. I stared, flabbergasted,into Carpet Slippers' face.

"But, sir—" I ventured. Tears and temper began to rise in me.

"D-don't argue. Do what you're told."

"But, sir—" And then, like a cloud, sullen obstinacy came down uponme. I was certain that he had been longing for an excuse to flog me.The pride and the relish of the martyr supported me as, withouttelling him that his head had obstructed my view, I walked out to domy message.

Finding the porter in his office, I politely inquired if he couldspare a cane for Mr. Fillet; and, at my query, he grinned—theblithering idiot. The cane that he handed me I took, and, being atthat moment a youngster who wouldn't have let his spirits sink forall the Fillets in the world, I offered back the cane and suggested:

"I say, are you sure you couldn't lose this?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Well, look here, do you really think you can manage to part withit?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Well, don't you think that, for a man of your age, you look rathera fool standing up there and saying 'Quite sure' to everythingthat's said to you? Don't you think it's rather a fat and sillything to do?"

I put it to him as man to man.

"Quite sure, sir," he replied with a laugh.

"Go to blazes," I said, "and take your vulgar guffaws with you."

On my way back I stayed to admire the classical busts and statuesthat lined the deserted corridors like exhibits in a museum. All thelife-size ones I whacked with my cane. I took a wistful pleasure ingiving the naked ones two good strokes each. As I drew near theclass-room door I certainly felt uncomfortable, for I knew Filletintended to sting. But my sense of martyrdom carried me through. Igathered my dignity about me and knocked heavily on the door.Annoyed that my hand had trembled and spoilt the effect, I openedthe door briskly and shut it briskly. With a calm step and fearlesslook, both studied, for I copied Doe in these matters, I walkedtowards Carpet Slippers. The little man was pretending he hadforgotten all about me, while really he had prepared a sarcasm withwhich to poison my wounds.

"Oh, indeed. You've b-been a long time gone; but thrashings are likegood wine—they improve with keeping."

He sucked in his breath with satisfaction.

"Yes, sir," replied I. If there was any trembling about me it wasinside and not visible.

He took the cane from my hand and examined its effectiveness. Then,intending a pretty little jest, he faced the class and commanded:

"St-stand out, that boy who asked the number of the sum after I hadput it on the board."

"Swine!" hissed somebody. I fancy it was Edgar Doe.

"I'm here, sir," replied I from his side, white.

Pennybet, who all this time had kept his mouth agape andimpersonated the village idiot, laid down his pen, closed his book,and disposed himself to watch out the matter. He was always callouswhen in pursuit of his object; and his object now was to suck thehumour out of my painful position. He put his elbow on the desk,rested his head at a graceful angle on the palm of his hand, andhalf closed his Arab eyes. He looked like an earnest parson posingfor a photograph.

Our engaging little master, having bent me over and arranged me forpunishment, gave me ten strokes instead of the usual six—the numberof the sum had been "ten."

When I rose from my bended posture, how I hated Carpet Slippers, andwas happy in my hate! I hated the silkiness of his chestnut beard; Ihated the sheen of his pink cranium; I hated his soft rotundity andhis little curvilinear features; I hated, above all, his poisonousspeeches. As I walked to my seat, my body stinging still, I resolvedto go to war with Fillet. I declared with all a child's power ofmake-believe that a state of war existed between Rupert Ray andCarpet Slippers. War, then, war, open or understood!

And when that class closed, no boy was more forcedly loud and livelythan I: no boy shut his books with greater claps; no boy banged hisdesk more carelessly. Nor would I listen to sympathising friends,but laughed out in Fillet's hearing: "You don't think I care, doyou?"

Fillet noticed my ostentatious display of indifference and perhapsfelt apprehensive of the latent devil that he had aroused, but hisinward comment, I doubt not, was: "We'll see who's going to bemaster here. He can feel the weight of my hand again, if he likes.We can't let a bad-spirited little boy have all his own way. I thinkwe'll break his defiance. I think we will." And possibly, as he saidit, he sucked in his breath with satisfaction. Fillet realised thatit was War and the first shots had been exchanged.

§3

This was the preliminary skirmish. Real and bloody battle was joinedtwenty-four hours later. But, in the meantime, there was anearly-evening lull which enclosed a delightful cricket match. A teamof junior Kensingtonians, that included Doe and myself, was goingacross Kensingtowe High Road to play the First Eleven of thePreparatory School, an academy flippantly known as the "Nursery,"its boys being "Suckers." Edgar Doe had been a certain choice.Brought up in the midst of a great cricketing family, the Grays ofSurrey tradition, in his beautiful Falmouth home which boastedcricket pitches of its own, he was as polished a bat as the Nurseryhad ever known. I came to be selected as a promising change-bowler.

We were walking in our flannels towards the Nursery gates, when Doe,referring with bad taste to the Fillet incident just closed, beganto chastise me with his cricket bat. I returned the treatment with apair of pads. So we went along, full in the public view, each tryingto "get in a good one" on the other. I managed to knock Doe's batout of his hand, and, as he stooped to pick it up, he received mypads upon his person. This was actually in the middle of the HighStreet. He laughed loudly, and crying "O you young beast!" startedto belabour me with his fists. Suddenly we stopped, let our handsfall to our sides, and began to walk like nuns in a cloister. Radleyhad joined us.

"If you're so anxious to whack each other," said he pleasantly,"won't you commission me to do it in both cases?"

We grinned sheepishly and said nothing. My mind formulated thesentence "Good Lord, no!" and, quickly constructing what would havehappened had I uttered it aloud, I tittered uncomfortably and lookedaway. There was an awkward pause as we walked along with our masterbetween us.

"Well, Ray," he said, endeavouring to put us at our ease, "are you agreat batsman?"

"No, sir," replied I. "Doe is."

"So I've heard. I'm coming to see what he's made of."

Doe could find nothing to say in reply, but lifted up his face andlooked at Radley with the gratitude of a dog. For my part I felt apleasing, squirmy excitement to think that we were to walk on to theNursery field in the company of the great Middlesex amateur; and,incidentally, I took the opportunity of measuring myself againsthim.

We arrived on the ground, creating less sensation than I would haveliked. Radley took a deck-chair in front of the pavilion next to Dr.Chapman, or "Chappy," surely the stoutest and jolliest of schooldoctors. The fact that Chappy, occupying so withdrawn a position asmedical officer to the two schools, should have been such amemorable figure in the life of the boys testifies to the largenessof his personality. And, not being the most modest of stout andhearty doctors, he was always willing himself to testify to thelargeness of his personality. He dearly loved cricket, he would tellyou, for he had been a cricketer himself and seen many worse; and hedearly loved boys, for he had been a boy himself and never seen anyworse: so, where there was a boys' cricket match, there, old man,you would find Dr. Chapman. Besides, when boys played cricket, itwas well to have a doctor on the field, and he was a doctor and hadnever met a better. Would you have a cigar? All tobacco, in hisopinion, led to the overthrow of body and soul—believe him; itdid—but you would never see him without a cigar. Not he!

Such was Chappy, the medicine man. He was right, about the cigar. AsI figure him in my mind, the things that I immediately associatewith his stout, jolly presence are a chewed cigar drooping from hismouth and a huge white waistcoat soiled by the tumbled ash. I sumhim up as a genial soul whose religion was to seek comfort, to findpopularity a comfortable thing, and to love popularity among youngthings as the most comfortable of all. And, if that last dogma ofhis be not Heaven's truth, then my outlook on life is all wrong, andthis book's a failure!

As Radley placed his muscular frame in the deck-chair, Chappygreeted him with these regrettable remarks: "Hallo, Radley, aren'tyou dead yet? How the devil are you? My word, how you've grown!"

The match started, Doe and our captain opening the Kensingtoweinnings. I left the other boys and lay down upon the grass a littlebehind Radley's chair. Converging reasons led me there: one—Idesired that my old friends, the Suckers, should know of my intimacywith S.T. Radley, of Middlesex; two—I felt Chappy's conversationwould certainly be entertaining; and three—I should soon have to goin to bat, and was feeling too nervous to talk to offensively happyboys who were unworried by such imminent publicity.

"So they've sent us a cricketer in young Doe," Radley was saying toDr. Chapman.

Chappy turned in his chair, which creaked alarmingly, and composedhimself to talk comfortably.

"Oh, the Gray Doe—yes, charming little squirt—best bat the Nurseryhad last year. And, though nobody but myself recognised it, the Gemwas the best bowler."

"The Gem?" queried Radley. "Who was the 'Gem'?"

"Don't you know the Gem? Why, Ray, the little snipe with eyessomething between a diamond and a turquoise. The ladies here calledhim 'The Gem' because of this affliction. He'd be a great bowler,only he's too shy."

At this point I rolled on to my stomach so as to appear unaware oftheir conversation, which was even more entertaining than I hadhoped. Radley turned round and, having seen me, said something in anundertone to Chappy. I imagine he drew attention to my proximity,for Chappy laughed out: "O law! Glory be!" and continued in a lowervoice.

My sense of honour was not so nice that it prevented me from tryingto catch the rest of their conversation. They had opened sopromisingly: and now Chappy was getting quite enthusiastic, and therapid motion of his lips was causing the cigar to be so restlessthat it constantly changed its position and scattered ash down hisexpanse of white waistcoat. I had no need, however, to strain myears, for Chappy was incapable of speaking softly for any length oftime. I caught him proceeding:

"He's clever, his masters say, and got a big future. Handsome littlerogue, too. He's none of your ordinary boys. He's a twig from thecedar-top."

For two reasons—first, that this was a fine rhetorical flourish onwhich to close; and secondly, that his breath was giving out—Chappyconcluded his remarks, swept his waistcoat, and re-arranged hisposition in the deck-chair. I was feeling horribly anxious lest Ishould die without knowing whether it was of Doe or of me that hehad spoken, when Radley cleared up the matter by saying:

"He's playing a straight bat, isn't he?"

So it was Doe. Well, he was clever, I supposed, but not as clever asall that.

"Straight bat, rather!" agreed Chappy.

"Does he play a straight bat in all things?"

"My dear fellow, what the la-diddly-um do you mean?"

"Why, he seems to be a bit of an actor—to do things because hewants to appear in a favourable light."

"I say, that's doocid ungenerous of you," said Chappy. "And, byjove, if he likes to imagine himself very noble and heroic, andtries to act accordingly, very fine of him."

"Very," endorsed Radley, cryptically.

"I've a great liking for him."

"So have I."

"Good. Now, what first attracted you—his good looks or hisvirtues?"

"Neither. His vices."

"Here, hang me, Radley," said Chappy, "you want examining. You'renot only a shocking bad conversationalist, but also a little mad.That's your doctor's opinion; that'll be a guinea, please."

After this I ceased to listen. The talk was all about Doe, andrather silly. And I wanted to think over the little fact, whichChappy had let fall, that certain ladies called me the "Gem." Ichewed a blade of grass and ruminated. That flattering littledisclosure balanced the weight of Fillet's dislike. I wished itcould be brought to his knowledge; and I imagined conversations inwhich he was told. This was the first time that it dawned upon methat there was anything in my looks to admire. Pennybet I conceivedto be dark and handsome, Doe fair and pretty, and myself drab andplain. But now I got up and took myself, completely thrilled, to amirror in the changing room to have a look at these same eyes. I wasprepared for something good. The result was that I became almostsick with disappointment. A close examination showed them to bequite commonplace. I could not really detect that they were blue. Ieven thought they looked a little foolish. And, as I gazed at them,they certainly turned very sad.

I strolled back to the pavilion just as a burst of applauseannounced a fine drive by Doe.

"Oh, pretty stroke!" shouted Chappy, sprinkling quantities of ash."Pretty play! By jove, the little fool's a genius!"

"He may be a genius of some other sort," said Radley, "but he's nota genius at cricket. Look at his diffidence in the treatment ofswift balls. He's a cricketer made, not born. He has imaginationand a sense of artistic effect, and a natural grace—that's all.They'll make him a poet, perhaps, but not a cricketer."

"Don't talk such flapdoodle!" grumbled Chappy. "Look at that!"

All that Doe did then was to direct the ball with perfect easebetween Point and Short Slip and to glance quickly towards thepavilion to see if the stroke had been noticed. The sight of himbatting there made me feel another squirmy sensation at the thoughtthat he was my especial friend. He had given, I recall, his grey hatto the umpire to hold, and the wind was playing with his hair. Hisshirt-sleeves were rolled up, showing arms smooth and round like awoman's.

Just then, however, my attention was attracted by a new arrival. Theboy Freedham, having listlessly wandered across from Kensingtowe,slouched on to the Nursery playground. He was a tall, weedy youth ofsixteen; and the unhealthiness of his growth was shown by the long,graceless neck, the spare chest, and the thin wrists. There was aweakness, too, at his knees which caused me to think that they hadonce worked on springs which now were broken. But the greatestabnormality was seen in his eyes. Startlingly large, startlinglybright, they were sometimes beautiful and always uncanny.

This Freedham, with his slack gait and carriage, strolled towards arailing and, resting both elbows on it, watched Doe at his cricket.The whole picture is very clear on my mind. A sunny afternoon seemedto have forgotten the time and only just made up its mind to mergeinto a mellow evening: the boys, watching the game, were sendingtheir young and lively sounds upon the air; those of the smallercattle, whose interest had waned, were engaging with the worst tastein noisy French cricket: the flannelled figures of the players, withtheir wide little chests, neat waists, and round hips, promised finethings for the manhood of England ten years on: at the wicket stoodthe attractive figure of Edgar Doe in an occupation very congenialto him—that of shining: and Chappy had just said: "I say, Radley,don't you think this generation of boys is the most shapely lotEngland has turned out? I wonder what use she'll make of them," whenhe saw Freedham's entry and opened a new conversation.

"That's old Freedham's boy over there, isn't it?" he asked."Shocking specimen."

"Yes, he's a day-boy. You know his father, the doctor?"

"Doctor be damned!" answered Chappy. "He's no more a doctor than aQuaker's a Christian. Old Freedham's surgery is a bally schism-shop.He's one of those homœopathic Johnnies, and would be blackballed onsocieties of which I'm a vice-president. You know—just as I cannever go into dissenting chapels without feeling certain of thepresence of evil spirits—my wife says it's the stuffiness of theatmosphere, but I say: 'No, my dear, it's evil spirits; I knowwhat's evil spirits and what's bad air'—well, just so I could nevergo into old Freedham's—but I'm not likely to be asked.Doctor—bah!"

And Chappy flung away the moist and masticated end of his cigar andall such nonsensical ideas with it. Then he took a new cigar fromhis case, proceeding:

"And the man's not only a nonconformist in the Medicine Creed, buthe's actually a deacon in a Presbyterian chapel—or somethingequally heathen—and a fluent one at that, I expect. I make a pointof never trusting those people. Look at his sickening son and heiryonder. Did you ever see an orthodox doctor produce a co*ckchaferlike that? That's homœopathy, that is—"

And Chappy flourished his new cigar towards Freedham.

Doe, too, had seen Freedham's entry, and some sign of recognitionpassed between them. The next ball came swiftly and threateninglydown upon the leg side, and Doe, perhaps with the nervousnessconsequent upon the arrival of a new critic before whom he wouldfain do well, stepped back. A shout went up as it was seen that theball had taken the leg bail. Doe looked flurried at this suddendismissal and a bit upset. He involuntarily shot a glance atFreedham and after some hesitation left the crease. He ratherdragged his bat and drooped his head as he walked to the pavilion,till, realising that this might be construed into an ungraciousacceptance of defeat, he brought his head erect and swung his batwith a careless freedom.

"Heavens!" murmured Radley. "Isn't he self-conscious?"

Chappy didn't hear. He was taken up in applauding the stylishinnings of the retiring batsman, and swearing he would stand the boya liquor.

"Bravo, Doe!" he shouted. "Don't think you can play cricket, 'cosyou can't. So there!"

Doe entered blushing and stood nervously by an empty chair nearRadley, who read his meaning and said: "Sit there, if you like."

My friend put the chair very close to his hero and, having sat init, began to remove his pads. I think Radley was pleased with thisaction and liked having the worshipping youth beside him. The fallof Doe's wicket had brought my innings nearer and started a freshattack of stage-fright. In my agitation movement seemed imperative.So I came and reclined on the ground by Edgar, intruding myself onhis notice by asking:

"That beastly tapeworm Freedham spoilt your game, didn't he?"

Edgar heard my question, and his lips fumbled with a reply. The facethat he turned upon me was a deep plum-pink from recent running andsurmounted with fair hair whose disordered ends were darkened withmoisture.

"No," he said; "at least, I don't know him. But what's it to do withyou?"

This remark was sufficiently discouraging to impel me on to my feetand to send me to districts where I should be less unpopular. Iconceived the idea of examining Freedham at nearer range. Perhaps Iwas jealous of him. Though as yet I had no unordinary love for Doe,I had a sense of proprietorship in him which was quickened theminute it was disturbed. So I moored myself on the railing aboutthree yards from Freedham. This could easily be managed, Freedhambeing one of those boys who were always alone. For a little Ipretended to watch the game and then stole a furtive, sidewaysglance at his lank profile. I had immediate cause to wish I had donenothing of the sort, for he turned his unholy eyes on mine and sodisconcerted me that I swung my face back upon the cricket field andaffected complete indifference. I even hummed a little ditty to showthat if any mind was free from the designs of the private detective,mine was. But my acting was not made easier by the certainty thatFreedham's eyes were steadily examining my burning cheek. And, if itbe possible to see a question in eyes which you are only imagining,I saw in Freedham's: "What the blazes do you want?" After giving himtime to forget me, I turned again to look at him. But once more Icaught his weird orbs full upon mine, and muttering. "Oh, dash!"concentrated my attention on the cricket.

A few minutes later the heavy wooden rail on which I was leaningbegan to vibrate horribly. I looked in alarm at Freedham. He wasstanding rigid, as though sudden death had stiffened him upright.His left hand was grasping the railing, and through this channel anelectric trembling of his whole frame had communicated itself to thewood. His face was unnaturally red, and his right hand had passedover his heart which it was pressing. His eyes were fixed on thecricket match.

My first sensation, I confess, was one of pride at being the boy todiscover Freedham in what appeared to be a fit. I went quickly tohim and said: "I say, Freedham. Freedham, what's the matter?"

"N-nothing," he replied, still stiff and trembling. "But it'sall—right. I shall be quite—fit again in a minute. Don't look atme."

"But shall I get you water or something?"

"No. It's all right. I've had these attacks before. In classsometimes and—I've conquered them, and—no one's known anythingabout them. So don't tell anyone about this. Promise."

It cost me something to throw away the prospect of telling thisthrilling story of which I had exclusive information, but the man inpain is master of us all, so I readily promised.

"All right, Freedham. That's all right."

Though some years his junior, I said it much as a mother wouldsoothe a frightened child to sleep.

"Thanks awfully," said Freedham gratefully.

"Oh, by the by, there's old Dr. Chapman over there. Should I fetchhim?"

"No, damn you!" cried my patient with extraordinary conviction."Can't you mind your own infernal business and leave me to mindmine?"

This was so rude that I felt quite justified in leaving him to mindhis own infernal business, whatever it might be. I strolled away.

Now, with this interesting performance of Freedham's, my desire todescribe this cricket match ends. There was a hot finish, but, inspite of some fortunate overs from myself, the Suckers won. The lastwicket down, Chappy got out of his deck-chair with a suddenquickness which suggested that such was the only method ofsuccessfully getting his fat self upon his feet; and, when he hadshaken down his white waistcoat and said: "Bye-bye, Radley. Reg'larmeals, no smoke, and you may grow into a fine lad yet," carriedhimself off with the awkward leg-work of a heavy-bodied man,cheerily acknowledging the greetings of the little Sucker boys, andprodding the fattest of them in the ribs. Radley strolled away,followed by the wondering looks of boys who were told that this bigman was S.T. Radley, of Middlesex. Freedham, quite recovered,returned to his day-boy roof among the endless roofs of KensingtoweTown. And I plied homeward to Bramhall House, depressed by theprospect of Preparation for the rest of the evening, and by therestored consciousness of Fillet's hostility, which, forgottenduring the cricket match, now came back upon me like a sense offoreboding.

CHAPTER III

AWFUL ROUT OF RAY

§1

The following afternoon I was looking rather glumly out of a windowat the broad playing fields which, in the greyness of a rainy day,seemed as deserted as myself. From my place I could see nearly allthe red-brick wall that surrounds Kensingtowe grounds; I could seethe iron railings which, at long intervals, break the monotony ofthe wall. Now the railings of Kensingtowe, like all places with sadmemories, have an honourable place in my heart.

Naturally it was a rule, strictly enforced, that boys must maketheir exit from the fields by going through the Bramhall gate ratherthan over the railings. Naturally, too, this rule was sometimesdisregarded, for the architect, whom I deem a desirable soul, hadmade the passage over the railings invitingly possible by means ofsome well-placed cross-pieces, which he sketched into his designs,saying (I imagine): "We shall have the lads climbing over at thispoint—well, God bless 'em—I hope they're not caught and whoppedfor it." Right at the farthest corner of the field was the Bramhallgate, which—But the Bramhall gate needn't interest us: we leaveby the railings.

The noise of a footstep disturbing the gravel caused me to lookdown. A boy, hatless, ran across to the wall and walked guiltilybeneath it till he reached the railings. The fairness of his hairarrested my attention. And, while I was wondering what any boy mightbe doing hatless in the rain, my friend Doe had grasped therailings, pulled himself to their top, and dropped on to thepavement beyond.

Now, my dear Watson, here was a case of exceptional interest. In allthe annals of criminal investigation I know of none that presentedpossibilities more bizarre, none that called more urgently for thesubtlest qualities of the private detective. I rushed out of thebuilding, letting doors slam behind me. Quickly I reached therailings, raised myself to the top, and glanced down the road intime to see Doe join the lank and sinister figure of Freedham at thecorner.

But alas! just over the road was Bramhall House, Fillet's ownkingdom, and even at that moment I saw a bald head emerge from itscentral doorway. A feeling that was partly terror and partly tempermanacled me to the top of the railings; and after a few tenseseconds I was gazing fascinated into a little bearded face which wasstaring with interest up at me. It was Carpet Slippers, and he maybe said to have been round a corner.

"Oh, dash!" I muttered. And then, as I stared down at him, thinkingit right that he, by virtue of his seniority, should open theconversation, I gradually began to feel better, for I rememberedthat it was War.

"Hallo, Ray," said Fillet, "what may you be d-d-doing up there?"

"Climbing over, sir." (Indeed, what more obvious?)

"Oh, you-you are climbing over, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, indeed."

When I saw that he was trifling with me, I determined that he shouldknow it was War. Defiantly I answered:

"Yes, sir. Climbing over. YES, SIR. YES, SIR."

Fillet went white, but he only sucked in his breath and said:

"Oh, indeed. And d-d-do you contemplate coming down?"

I borrowed a favourite word of Penny's. "Ultimately, sir."

"Ah! you do, do you? Well, wh-when you 'ultimately' come down, youwill go straight to my study."

"Delighted, sir." The blood rushed to my face as I realised my ownimpudence, but I was glad that I had said it.

Fillet went his way, and I came down from my railing, combating thesickening certainty that I had made a fool of myself, anddetermining to believe in the splendour of my attitude and to carryit through to victory. Carry on, Rupert, carry on. Onward, Christiansoldiers.

I sauntered over to Bramhall House and climbed the stairs to thehouse-master's study. Hearing Fillet grunt at my knock, I walked into execution.

"Oh, let's see, Ray, you were cl-climbing over, weren't you?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Oh, indeed. Then you shall write five hundred lines of Cicero.You'll play no games till they're done."

Five hundred Latin lines! God! I had nerved myself for physicalpunishment, but for nothing so dreadful as this. This meant longdays of confinement with hard, hard labour. A great mass of tearsrose from somewhere and came dangerously near the surface. But Ikept them down and tried to show, though there was a catch in myvoice, that I was still unbroken.

"Yes, sir. Anything further?"

"Yes indeed." Carpet Slippers sucked in his breath. "A furtherhundred lines. P-p-perhaps that'll teach you that rebellion isexpensive."

I swallowed the tears. "No, sir. That won't teach me."

"So? Well, let's say yet another hundred."

Mentally stunned and bleeding, but ready to do battle with the Dayof Judgment itself, I retorted:

"That won't teach me either, sir."

"Oh, indeed. Then we'll add another three hundred—eh?—making athousand in all."

And at that point I shamefully broke off the fight. It wasn'tfair—he had all the artillery. I held back the tears, fastgathering in volume, and gave up the unequal contest. One day my ownguns would come. Quite respectfully I said "Yes, sir," and walkedout. The vanguard of that mighty array of tears had forced its wayas far as my eyes, which felt suspiciously moist. In fact, as I shutthe door and found myself alone—absolutely alone—they nearly cameforth in full cataract. But I saved the situation by thinking hardof other things and whistling loudly.

I went to an open window in the corridor and, looking out, saw thatthe sun had just dispelled the rain. The railings of Kensingtoweover the roadway were still burnished and glistening with wet, aswere the leaves of shrubs and trees. And the air that touched mycheek was all soft and sweet-smelling after rain. Resting my elbowson the window-sill, I told myself that I hated Carpet Slippers;that I hated Doe and it was all his fault; that I wouldn't do thelines—I wouldn't do them; that I didn't care if I was expelled;Kensingtowe was a beastly school, and Bramhall was its filthiesthouse.

The sound of a step in the corridor behind me arrested my thoughts.I leaned farther out of the window and muttered: "Oh, I hope hewon't speak to me. I hope he'll pass by. I hate him, whoever he is.O God, make him pass by," for I knew there was a moisture in myeyes. I hurriedly held them wide open, that they might dry in thesun.

"Ray?" It was Radley's voice, but I wilfully paid no attention.

In a second he had laid violent hands on me and swung me round, sothat I was held facing him.

"What? Crying, Ray? That's a luxury we men must deny ourselves."

It seems, as I recall it, a fine sentence, but at that moment, whenI wanted to be a wild ass among men, it was a lie. The hot bloodflooded my forehead. "I'm not crying!" I snapped, keeping my faceupturned, my eyes fixed on his, and my teeth firmly set, that hemight see that he had lied.

"No, of course you're not. But come, now, Ray, what's the matter?Out with it! There's nobody but me to hear you. And I understand."

I didn't want him to speak kindly to me, for I hated him. So I saidin a rapid, trembling voice:

"I've got a thousand lines from Mr. Fillet. I didn't deserve themand I'm not going to do them!"

Immediately I felt that a catastrophe had occurred—that an edifice,which had been standing a second ago, was now no more. Before thatsentence I had faced a kindly friend, now I faced an offendedmaster. But, though I knew the ruin my words had wrought, I indulgeda glow of self-righteousness and was prepared to relate my defianceto an approving world.

"Come with me," commanded Radley. Swinging round, he walked towardshis room. At first I remained at the window without moving, andwaited for him to turn his head and tell me a second time to come.But he walked on, never entertaining the thought of my not obeyinghim. And I followed, armed with indifference. It was a pity thatwalking behind him should give me so fine a view of his splendidproportions and inflate me with strange aspirations, for I hated theman and wanted to do so. I hated him—let no other thought replacethat.

He led me to his room and said "Come in." I entered and, when I hadclosed the door, looked aimlessly about, taking little interest inthe suggestive fact that Radley was opening a cupboard. There waslittle change in my countenance when he placed himself opposite mewith his cane in his hand.

"You have been very rude to me in speaking defiantly of yourhouse-master. Do you understand?"

There was no alternative for me but to say "Yes, sir." The answercame huskily. I was annoyed that my voice sounded hoarse.

"Put out your hand."

I obeyed, stretching out my right hand as far as I could anddisplaying no perturbation, though I was wondering what it would belike to be caned on the hand. This was one of Radley's surprises,and he followed it with one of his brutal remarks:

"Put that right hand down. You'll need it to be in good conditionfor writing your lines. Put up your left."

I held out my left hand. The cane sang in the air and whistled on tomy open palm. A spasm of pain passed up my arm, my hand closedconvulsively, my elbow drooped, and that vast array of tears made atremendous effort to carry everything before them. But with all thestrength at my command I got the better of them. Angry at havingclosed my hand, I extended the scorching palm again, and, very paleand trembling perceptibly, looked with set features straight atRadley.

He threw the cane away and, sitting on the edge of his table, tookhold of the hand that he had struck and drew me towards him.

"Don't you think, Ray, that you, who can take a licking so pluckily,ought to face bad luck in a less cowardly fashion than you have thisafternoon? You'll meet worse things than lines before you're tenyears older; and, Ray, I want you always to face your fate, whateverit may be, as you faced my cane—teeth set, no wincing."

It was a stroke of master play. His gentleness, followingimmediately upon his severity, burst the dam. His words were an"Open Sesame" to the leaky floodgates I had held so tightly closed.I hung my head and the huge throng of tears broke forth. Wo-ho, whata cascade! My eyes overflowed with salt tears and my nose wantedwiping. Oh, waly, waly. Radley seemed indisposed to let go of myleft hand, so I was compelled to search for my handkerchief with myright. After sounding the depths of four pockets, I found it, asingularly dirty one, in the fifth. And, while great internal sobsshook my frame with the regularity of minute-guns, Radley spoke sonicely that I determined I would be everything he wanted, a reallybeautiful character—always providing that it didn't interfere withmy war with Fillet. For one day—one great and distant day—I wouldterribly overthrow that little old pantaloon.

"Now, Ray, we must get someone to dictate a few of these lines toyou."

I looked up and smiled. "Thank you very much, sir," and Iunconsciously pressed his hand.

"Doe is your friend. We'll test his metal and see whether he thinksfriendship is something more than getting into scrapes together." Hetouched a bell. "I'll send for him."

I gave a sudden shiver. Doe was out in the world with Freedham,probably without an "exeat," and certainly without a hat. I began towonder whether by a dramatic dénouement I was to be the cause ofDoe's capture.

"You rang, sir?" inquired the manservant.

"Yes; find Master Doe. He's in the house."

"Yes, sir." The door closed, and it was too late. Too late for what?I was sure I didn't know, for there was nothing I could have done toprevent the search for Doe. Late emotion had left, I suppose, myimagination in an overwrought state. And I had reason to wonder if Iwas moving in a dream, when, after a knock at the door, Doe walkedin, his eyes sparkling at having been sent for by the object of hisworship.

"Now, Doe," began Radley, with a smile—

Ray's just got a thousand lines of Cicero. But he understands allabout 'courage in your own,' and you understand all about 'kindnessin another's trouble.'"

"Yes, sir," agreed Doe, a bit bewildered, but instantly prepared tolive up to this noble reputation.

"Well, what do you say to dictating some of the lines to him?"

"Rather, sir. I'll dictate them.... Besides, sir," he added, as ifthis explained everything, "Ray and I are twins."

§2

And not a game did Doe play until he had dictated all those lines.It occupied a week and two days. When I dropped my pen, havingwritten the last word, the relief of thinking that I had no morelines to write was almost painful. I felt suddenly ill. My loins,aching alarmingly, reminded me that I had been in a sitting posturefor many a weary hour; and my fingers, suffering from what I judgedto be rheumatism or gout, fidgeted to go on writing. My mind, too,was confused so that I found myself repeating whole lines of Cicero,sometimes aloud; and my face was pale, save for a dangerous pinkflush on the forehead.

Life, however, seemed brightened by the sense of a task completed,and I began to think of someone else besides myself.

"I say, Doe," I asked, "aren't you going to tell me where you weregoing when you joined that knock-kneed idiot Freedham?"

"No," announced Doe.

"But look here," I began, and was just about to tell him thatFreedham was an unwholesome creature who had mysterious fits like ademoniac, when I remembered my promise of silence: so I went onlamely: "You will tell me one day, won't you?"

"No," he repeated, feeling very firm and adamant and Napoleonic.

"But, my darling blighter, why not?"

"Because I don't choose to."

"Then you're a pig. But you might, Doe. Out with it. There's nobodybut me to hear you. And I understand."

"No."

"Well, tell me, how did you get back so early?"

"You see," answered Doe, cryptically, "the sun came out; and whenthe sun came out, I came in."

It was a romantic sentence such as would delight this rudimentarypoet. Why he condescended to break his mighty silence even to thisextent, I don't know. It was perhaps a boyish love of hinting at asecret which he mustn't disclose. An awful idea struck me. I say itwas awful because, though stirring in itself, it brought the thoughtthat I was left out of it.

"Oh, Doe, have you—have you a SECRET SOCIETY?"

"No."

"Here, hang me, Doe," I said, "you're not only a shocking badconversationalist, but also a little mad. That's your doctor'sopinion. That'll be a guinea, please."

And I got up to take the lines to Fillet.

"I say, Rupert," said Doe, blushing and looking away.

"Well?" I asked, with my hand on the door-knob.

"I say," he stuttered, "you—you might just mention to Radley that Idictated all the lines. It would sort of—I mean—Oh, but youneedn't, if you don't want to."

§3

That night there happened in Bramhall House one of those strangeevents that are best chronicled in a few cold sentences. That night,I say, while honest men and boys slept, Mr. Fillet sat up in bed andlistened. He distinctly heard movements in his study below. Jumpingup, he slided into his carpet slippers and crept downstairs. Therewas a light in his study. He looked round the half-open door and sawthe back view of a boy in pyjamas. The whole incident is much toosinister for me to remind you frivolously that little CarpetSlippers was once again round his corner. He began: "Wh-what are youdoing?" and the boy at once did what any properly constitutedmidnight visitor should do—switched off the electric light. WhenMr. Fillet, with a heart going like a motor engine, found the switchand flooded the room with light, there was, of course, no one there.But on his writing-table lay his cane, broken into pieces, and myown copy of the thousand lines torn into little bits.

CHAPTER IV

THE PREFECTS GO OVER TO THE ENEMY

§1

What more exciting than for the whole school to learn by rumour thenext morning that all the prefects of Bramhall House had beenmysteriously withdrawn from their Olympian class-rooms to a specialcabinet meeting under the presidency of Stanley, the gorgeoushouse-captain? Clearly some awful crime had been committed atBramhall, and there would be a public whacking and an expulsion. Wehumans may or may not be brutal, but life is certainly morestimulating when there is an execution in the air.

Chattering, prophesying, and wondering who was the criminal, wefound our way to our various class-rooms. It being First Period,Doe, Penny, and I were under Radley's stern rule and obliged to sitquietly in our desks, knowing that he would allow no more licence onthis exciting day than on any other. Our heads were bent over ourwork when Bickerton, the junior prefect of Bramhall, entered theroom, approached the master's desk, and spoke in an undertone toRadley.

I saw—for I was gazing at the new arrival over my work—Radley lookastonished, and turn his eyes in my direction.

"Ray."

"Yes, sir."

"You're wanted in the Prefects' Room."

I remember the universal flutter of excitement and surprise; Iremember Doe raising his head like a startled deer as I went out andshut the door; I remember catching, from outside, Radley's sharprebuke, "Get on with your work." His voice sounded strangelydistant, and seemed to be on the happier side of a closed door.

Bickerton, who was enjoying himself, walked in front; and I followedbehind, bringing my attention to bear upon keeping in step.Rearranging my stride now and then, I marched through the emptycorridors, listening to the drone of masters' voices teaching intheir class-rooms, and wondering at the loudness of our footsteps.The sight of the prefects' door gave me my first sense of fear.

Being a prefect and thus mightily privileged, Bickerton turned thedoor-handle of the room without knocking. It was like laying a handupon the Ark. Into the holy place Doe and I had passed before, notas prisoners, but as patronised pets who were suffered to amuse theaugust tenants with our "lip" until we became too disrespectful,when we would be ejected with a kick. This morning it struck strangeand cold to hear Bickerton say:

"Here's the little bounder."

I entered, and saw the whole array of Bramhall prefects assembled,Stanley, their senior, presiding. Bickerton shut the doorceremoniously.

There were twelve of them, and every man was a blood. They hadreached a solemn age and, in the dignity of their bloodhood, werequite unaware that they were playing at a mock-trial and enjoyingit. I'm sure none of them would have missed it. Were Stanley alivenow, instead of lying beneath the sea off Gallipoli, he would betwenty-seven years of age, very junior in his profession, andtherefore much younger than when he was a house-captain of nineteen:and he would admit that on this famous occasion he and hisfellow-prefects were highly pleased with the transaction entrustedto them. For at twenty-seven we are people who have been old and noware young again.

His team sat down two sides of a long table, and himself wasenthroned at the top in front of foolscap and blotting-paper. It wasa splendid tribunal.

I tried to persuade myself that I was perfectly comfortable, andcould, if need be, show my easy conscience by a little old-timeimpudence. In reality my heart was fluttering, and a perspirationhad broken out upon my head and the palms of my hands. My brows Iwiped on my sleeve, and my hands I rubbed on the seat of mytrousers. Nor had I lost the headache which asserted itself directlymy long imposition was done. My forehead felt as if it had swollenand extended the skin across it like elastic. And for the lasttwelve hours my face had been warm and burning.

"Now, Rupert Ray," said Stanley, "we want you to own up to thisblooming business of last night. So fire away."

"I don't know what you're gassing about," said I.

"Now don't be sulky. You'll only make matters worse by trying tobluff us. And goodness knows they're bad enough as it is."

"Oh, to think how we've been disappointed in you!" interposedBickerton, who had taken up a position on the fender. "To think howwe've cherished this viper in our bosom!" And he raised his hands inmock despair.

"Now don't be an ass, Bicky," said Stanley, who deemed that a Courtof Inquiry over which he presided was much too weighty an affair tobe approached with levity; "it's no joking matter. The kid's in abeastly mess, and, when he owns up, we must try to get him off aslightly as possible. I think perhaps we've let this youth and hischum, the Gray Doe, get too cheeky, and to that extent we're toblame.... Now, Ray, answer me some questions. Did you get a thousandlines from our revered housemaster, Carpet—Mr. Fillet?"

"Yes."

"When did you complete them?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"In short, on the afternoon immediately preceding the tragedy whichtook place in the microscopic hours of this morning?"

"Yes, I s'pose so."

"That's a remarkable coincidence, isn't it?"

"I'm bothered if I see why."

"My dear child, you really mustn't be 'bothered' in here. It's grossdisrespect to my brother-prefects—my colleagues. Besides, you knewperfectly well that in the stilly night a malicious attempt was madeupon—not upon the life—but upon the cane of Mr. Fillet, which is,after all, the life and soul of the little man."

There was laughter in court, in which his worship joined.

"O law!" ejacul*ted I, as things began to fall into shape.

"Really, child, such expressions as 'O law!' are out of order,especially when they're only so much bluff.... I must now approach asubject which may have sordid recollections for you, but in theinterest of the law I am bound to allude to it. Were youwhacked—ahem!—chastised a few days ago by the aforesaid Mr.Fillet?"

"Yes."

"When did the old gaffer—when did Mr. Fillet whack you?"

"Yes, tell the gentleman that," put in Kepple-Goddard, a prefect whofelt that he was not playing a sufficiently imposing part and wishedto have his voice heard.

"A week ago last Monday," I answered.

"Where did he whack you?" pursued Stanley.

"On the recognised spot."

"Now, don't be cheeky. In what place did he whack you?"

"Why, in his class-room, of course," I retorted. "Where do you thinkhe'd do it? In the High Street?" As I said this I was seized with anervous fit of giggling.

"Look here, sonny," said Kepple-Goddard, rapping on the table,"you're going the right way towards getting a prefects' whacking forcontempt of court."

Stanley raised his hand for silence.

"Why did he whack you?"

"Because he couldn't get my sum right."

Here Banana-Skin, a large and overbearing prefect, so called becauseof his yellowish complexion, burst in with the skill of aprosecuting counsel:

"Oh, then, are we to understand that you were whacked unjustly andhad reason for vindictiveness?"

"Go easy, Banana-Skin," protested Stanley. "Don't bully the kid."

"But," I said, beginning to feel that horrid array of tearsmobilising again, "that was some time before he gave me the lines—"

"Don't beat about the bush," interrupted Banana-Skin. "Did you feelthat you hated him?"

The question was not answered at once. I cannot explain how it was,but the figure of Radley stood very clearly before my mind's eye,and this helped me to speak the truth, though my voice broke a bit.

"Yes."

"Ah!" Everybody considered Banana-Skin to have elicited a damningadmission.

"Now," continued Stanley, his curiosity superseding his sense ofwhat was relevant, "how many cuts did he give you?"

"Ten."

"Poor little beggar! Didn't that seem to you rather a lot?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Now answer the Coroner that," commanded Kepple-Goddard.

"Yes," I replied.

"H'm!" grunted Stanley. "How did you know where you could find yourthousand lines so that you could tear them up?"

"I don't know what you mean. You're bluffing now."

"Hallo!" cried Banana-Skin. "Didn't you hear him say 'You'rebluffing now'? That shows that he was bluffing before."

"Oh, that's a bit too clever!" objected Stanley. "Give the kid achance."

There's nothing like sympathy for provoking misery and startingtears, and, as Stanley uttered that sentence, I decided that God hadgone over to the prefects, and I would very much like to cry. Todrive back the tears I called to my aid all the callousness andsulkiness which I possess. My face was the portrait of a sulkyschoolboy as Stanley continued:

"Now, Ray, which door did you leave the dormitory by?"

"I didn't leave it."

"I say," suggested Kepple-Goddard, "couldn't we send Bickerton toask all the boys who sleep in the same dormitory whether they sawhim leave it?"

"But they'd have been asleep, you ox!" put in Banana-Skin.

"Not necessarily."

"But it doesn't follow that, if they didn't see him leavethe dormitory, he didn't do it," objected Banana-Skin, theself-constituted prosecuting counsel, who didn't want to see hiscase fall to the ground.

"Not quite. But if they did see him, it proves him a liar andpretty well shows that he did."

"There's more sense in Kepple's idea than one would expect," gaveStanley as his decision. "Dash away, Bicky, and find out."

So Bickerton—or shall I call him Mercury, the messenger of thegods?—went, and I remained. It was no matter to me what news hebrought back. I stood there, in the lions' den, and counted thecracks in the ceiling. I counted, also, the number of corners thatthe room possessed, and remembered how these same prefects had often(as when gods disport themselves) tried to make Doe and me stand inthem for what they termed "unmitigated cheek"; how, giggling, wewould fight them and kick them till they surrounded us and held uswith our faces to the wall; and how we would call them all the rudenames we could think of till they stuffed handkerchiefs in ourmouths as a gag. One of their favourite pastimes had been to doDoe's hair, which they darkened with their wet brushes. It wasusually a difficult business, as Doe would treat the whole operationin a disorderly spirit and declare that it tickled.

Presently Bickerton was heard running up the corridor (ratherundignified for a prefect) and came bursting into the room.

"Now listen," said he, somewhat out of breath, and looking at asheet of paper which he held in his hand. "Two boys saw Ray get upand leave the dormitory last night. They sleep on either side ofhim, and their names are Pennybet and Doe. The latter isn't surewhether he dreamt it."

"Well, Ray, what have you got to say to that?" asked Stanley.

"Nothing," I answered, "except that, if it's true, I must have beenwalking in my sleep. I did once, when I was a small boy."

Stanley ignored my feeble defence. He submitted to his colleaguesthat it was all his eye and Betty Martin; and the others noddedassent. Then the Chairman, recovering from his slight relapse intothe vernacular of the Fourth Form, enunciated the followingremarkable sentence:

"This inquest has, you will agree, been conducted by me in astrictly impartial and disinterested way, and the proceedings havebeen conspicuous for the absence of any bias, prejudice, orbigotry."

"Whew!" whistled several boys. Stanley let a grin hover in awell-bred way about his lips as he recommenced, the sentence beingwell-prepared and worth repeating:

"There has been no bias, prejudice, or bigotry. Well, gentlemen, isthe corpse guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, the little beast!"

I went out of that cruel room resolved that "beneath all thebludgeonings of chance my head should be bloody but unbowed." I wasunconquerable! I walked along the corridor, blown out with injuredvirtue—a King among men. We assure you, our beloved subjects, wewere Rupert Head-in-Air.

§2

I returned to Radley's class-room and entered jauntily. All eyesturned and followed me as I walked to the master's desk. Theexcitement experienced by each boy seemed communicated to me. Radleyfeigned indifference.

"Well?" said he.

"I've come back, sir."

"Right. Go and sit down."

Scarcely had I reached my seat before the bell rang loudly for theInterval. The boys in their anxiety to hear the latest news flowedout hurriedly. I lingered apprehensively behind. At last I summonedup courage to venture into the corridor, where I found a group ofboys awaiting me. Through these I broke at a rush and went and hid.

All that Interval lip tossed to lip such remarks as: "Ray did it.""I say, have you heard Ray's the culprit?" "What'll be done to him?""Oh, the prefects have issued an edict that anyone who holdscommunication with him will get a Prefects' Whacking." "Ray did it.""What? that kid? Little devil—it's good-bye to him, I suppose.""What'll Radley say? He's one of his latest bally pets." "Ray didit."

After ten minutes the Second Period began. As our form went to HerrReinhardt, the great Mr. Cæsar, and he would certainly be late, Idawdled in my hiding-place, not having the courage to face the boysin the corridor. I waited till I conjectured that Mr. Cæsar must besafe in his class-room, and the boys in their desks. Then I enteredhis room, famous character as I was, and apologised for being late.Mr. Cæsar wrote my name in the Imposition Book, but, having raisedhis face and given one look at my swollen, tearful eyes, hedeliberately crossed the name out again. And, indeed, throughoutthat period he so consistently refused to see that the boys wereshowing detestation of my degrading presence, and was soinexpressibly gentle in his manner towards me, that now I alwaysthink of this weak-eyed German master as a quiet and Christiangentleman.

When school-hours were over I went to a window, and there, leaningon the sill, thought how badly my war was going. Fillet was winning;he had won when he caned me for asking the number of the sum; he hadwon when he gave me the thousand lines; and now he was assaulting inmass formation with the whole school as his allies. Ah, well! asWellington said at Waterloo—it depended who could stand thispounding longest, gentlemen.

And, as Wellington did, I would charge at the end of the day. Onesplendid way of charging, I thought, would be to die immediately.That would be most effective. How Fillet would prick up his ears onMonday morning when he heard the Head Master say to the schoolassembled in the Great Hall: "Your prayers are asked for yourschoolfellow, Rupert Ray, who is lying at the point of death." Andon Tuesday, when he should say in a shaking voice: "Yourschoolfellow, Ray, died early this morning. His passing wasbeautiful; and may my last moments be like his." And then therewould be the Dead March.

Having no one to talk to, I drew out from among the crumbs andrubbish in my pockets a letter that had arrived from my mother thatmorning. My young mother's love for me was always of the extravagantkind, and the words with which she closed this letter were:

"I do hope you are having a magnificent time and that everybody is fond of you and nice to you. I must stop now, so good-bye, my darling little son, and God bless you. With heaps of love from your ever devoted and affectionate Mother."

It was funny that I had not even noticed those words when Ihurriedly read them in the morning. But now I found them strangelycomforting, strangely satisfying.

A slap on the back awoke me from my reverie. It was Doe.

"Come along, Rupert. I know you didn't do it. Or, if you did, Idon't care. We're twins."

"Go away. You'll get into a dreadful row if you're caught talking tome."

"I don't care. They won't think any the worse of me, whatever theydo."

"Go away, I tell you. Or, if you don't, I shall have to, and I'mvery comfortable here."

"I shan't. And if you try to escape me I'll follow you."

"Oh, why can't you go away?" I grumbled with something like a sob."Go away. Go away."

But Doe persisted. In full view of the prefects he chatted gaily tome. Once, as Radley passed, he slipped his arm into mine. And whenthe master was out of hearing he asked:

"I s'pose Radley knows you're in Coventry?"

"Of course. Everybody does."

"Do you think he saw I had my arm in yours?"

"I should think so. You made it pretty obvious."

"I wonder what he thought."

All this time the skin on my forehead seemed to tighten and mycheeks to tingle with warmth. Towards evening my temples began tobeat regularly. At these symptoms I was rather thrilled thanotherwise, for I felt there was a distinct prospect of my turningthe tables on everybody by dying.

At preparation the boys, with that lust to punish to which a crowdis always susceptible, slid along the form to get as far fromme as possible and to leave plenty of room for myself and mycontamination.

In the dormitory no one spoke to me, but as I was getting into mypyjamas one of the dormitory prefects burst in and addressed asenior boy:

"I say, talking about this row of Rupert Ray's, isn't the Gray Doegoing to catch it to-morrow, by jove?"

In my anxiety about Doe I forgot that I was banned.

"What's he going to get?" My voice sounded husky and strange. Theboys didn't answer me or show that they had heard. Theyostentatiously proceeded with their conversation. Even Pennybet hadhis back turned. I flung myself into my bed in a way that nearlybroke the springs, and, pulling the clothes furiously over my head,left my bare feet showing, at which several boys laughedcontemptuously.

Oh, the horrid activity of my wide-awake brain! I couldn't sleep,and even found difficulty in keeping my eyes shut. Once, as I raisedmy weary lids, I found that the lights had gone out since I lastopened my eyes. And my headache, which had spread to the back of myneck, was getting but little relief from my frequent changes ofposition. Oh, the horrible conglomeration of ideas that crowded mymind! Recent scenes and conversations entangled themselves in oneanother. Ray did it—Ray did it—my darling little son—good-bye andGod bless you—there has been no bias, prejudice, or bigotry, butheaps of love from your devoted and affectionate mother—Ray didit—it's good-bye to him, I suppose—good-bye and God bless you—

"Good-night, Ray."

That must be Doe's voice; it came from reality and not from dreams:it came loudly out of the silence of the dormitory and not from thechorus of conflicting sentences droning in my mind: it was a realvoice, but I was too tired and too far lost in stupor to answer it:good-night, Ray—it's good-bye to him, I suppose—heaps oflove—there was some comfort in that—heaps of love from yourdevoted and affectionate mother. Ah! when shall I get properly offto sleep? Let me turn over on to my other side and put my hand underthe pillow—but it was young Ray—Ray did it—Ray did it—how thatdetestable sentence swells till it packs my head!—and I must beasleep now, for I see Fillet fitting a rope across the door of anunknown bedroom wherein I am confined with some invisible Terrorwhich drives me out of my bed: as I rush into the passage the ropetrips me up, and I fall forwards but am saved from injury by mymother's arms: she catches me in the dark and says something aboutmy darling little son. And she remonstrates with Fillet, who isstanding by that dreadful bedroom door, till he merges into Stanleylistening shame-facedly to my mother's silvery, chiding laugh andassuring her that the inquest was conducted in a strictly impartialand disinterested way. He changes into old Doctor Chapman, who tellsher that Freedham died early this morning. For everything changes inthe dream except one thing: which is that there is a head achingsomewhere; now it is my own, now someone else's. I draw my motheralong a passage to a window and explain that the pencil-mark on theglass is the register of my height. I put my back against the wallto let her see that I can just reach the mark, when lo! it is agreat distance above me. I get on the cold stone window-sill that Imay reach it, and would fall a thousand feet, only something in mybreast goes "click"—and the dream was gone. With my return toconsciousness came the knowledge that the headache had been my ownthroughout.

But it was terribly cold—and what a draught! Perhaps it was becauseI was lying so dreadfully straight, whereas I generally lay curledup. I wanted to bring my knees towards my chest, but couldn't movemy legs. How cold my chest was! Why had the bedclothes fallen awayand left it exposed to this horrible draught? I would have liked topull them right over my head that I might get warm again, but I wastoo tired to make the effort. At last, however, the cold was morethan I could bear. So I put out both hands to pull up theblankets—but could find none anywhere. God! I wasn't in bed at all,but was standing!

The horror of that moment! A wild heart beat lawlessly at my side.One more touch of terror, and it would rebel in utter panic. Why wasthe dormitory so dark? Why had the little night-lamp gone out? Andthe wooden floors were stone-cold like the window-sill in my dream.I couldn't see if my bed were close to me or far away because of theimpenetrable darkness; but I was so very, very tired, and my eyeswere so uncomfortably warm with interrupted sleep that I must try tofeel my way. I put out my hand and touched a padlock. Like aflash, it came with all its terror upon me: I was not in thedormitory nor anywhere near it, but right away in a cellar below theground where there were some old lockers and play-boxes. Flingingmyself first to one side of the cellar and then to the other, I toreat the walls in an agonised endeavour to get out. The last thingthat I remember was shrieking loudly and feeling a moisture rise tomy dry lips and pass down my chin.

§3

I awoke with a dull sense of impending trouble to find myself abedin the Bramhall sick-room, into which long shafts of noondaysunlight were streaming from behind drawn blinds. Looking down uponme was Dr. Chapman, with his usual white waistcoat and moist cigar.

"Ah ha!" he said. "Now, Gem, what the dooce do you think is thematter with you?"

I replied that I didn't know, and, just to see what he would say,asked him why he called me "Gem."

"Gem? Whoever called you 'Gem'? Did I? Yes, of course I did—it'sshort for Jeremiah."

"The gifted old liar!" I thought, while I demanded aloud his reasonfor calling me "Jeremiah."

"Why, because you look so dam—miserable, as though your eyes wouldgush out with water."

And partly at this idea, partly at his skill in getting out of adifficulty, Chappy laughed so heartily that I laughed too, only withthis difference—that, whereas his laugh was like sounding brass,mine was like a tinkling cymbal. Then he sat down by my bed and,taking my wrist in one hand, pushed up the sleeve of my pyjamajacket and felt my smooth, firm forearm. "Good enough," he said, andproceeded to open the jacket down the front, and feel my chest andwaist, thumping me in both of them, and expecting me to gurglethereat like a sixpenny toy.

"You're all right," he decided, "except that you're an ass. Takeyour medical man's word for it—you're an ass. My prescription is'Cease to be lunatic three times daily and after eating.' My fee'llbe a guinea, please."

I said nothing, but looked at him for further advice.

"Confound you! Don't look at me with those Jeremiad eyes. What haveyou been doing, moping indoors for the last ten days instead ofplaying in the fresh air?"

"I wasn't moping—" I began sullenly.

"Now, sulky—sulky!" interrupted Chappy.

"I wasn't moping. I went and got a thousand lines from Mr. Fillet—"

"Yes, I know. The damned old stinker!" said Chappy, always coarseand delightful.

I think I loved him for those words. I felt that my allies wereswinging into line for the great war against Carpet Slippers. Therewas Doe, and now Chappy.

"I know all about it," continued the new ally, "and then you filledyour excitable mind with thoughts of revenge—eh?"

"Yes," I admitted, and looked down at the clean white sheet.

"And off you go on your midnight perambulations—the cold wakes youup—and there's the devil to pay—and the old doctor to pay! Oneguinea, please. And now I'm off."

"Oh, don't go," I pleaded, before I was aware of saying it. I didn'twant him to go, for he was an entertaining apothecary and asympathetic person, before whom I could act my sullenness andaggrievement.

"Don't go? Why shouldn't I?" demanded Chappy, who seemed, however,touched at my wanting him. "Now, my son, don't you run away with theidea that you're of the slightest importance. All boys are the mostuseless, burdensome, and expensive animals in the world. It wouldn'tmatter twopence if they were all wiped out of existence—there'd bea sigh of relief. So don't think it interesting that you're ill.Because it isn't. And you ain't ill. So good-bye."

He disappeared into the matron's room next door, and his heartyvoice could be heard haranguing the lady:

"The Gem's got a healthy young constitution, but his brain's aticklish instrument. His corpore is as sano as you like, but hismens is rather too excitabilis. Ah ha! Matron, what it is tomove in this classic atmosphere! Certain sproutings of hisimagination must be repressed—push 'em down, Matron. Young beggar,I'd sit on him and crush him. But then, it's all the fault of thatstuttering old barbarian slave-driver, Fillet."

Here the matron must have been speaking, for I heard no more tillChappy began again:

"He's got a tough little breast, fine stomach-muscles, and limbsfirm and round enough to get him a prize in a Boy Show. But thebeast is spoiled as a specimen by his little Vesuvius of a mind. Andoh, Matron, I lied to him like an under-secretary. I said that boyswere the least important arrangements in the world, when, dammit—Imean, God bless my soul—they're the most important things inCreation, and this particular hotbed of the vermin has some of thefinest editions of them all. But never let the little blades knowit—never let 'em know it."

With that he must have taken his leave, for quiet assumed possessionof everything. I settled down to the boredom of the afternoon,letting my eyes travel up and down the stripes of the wall-paper. Upone stripe I went, down the next, and up the third, till I hadcovered the whole of one wall. Then I tossed myself on to my otherside with an audible groan that gave me but little relief, sincethere was no one to hear. The day wore on, and the long streaks oflight worked their way round the room, grew ruddier, and climbed upthe wall.

Oh, wearisome, wearisome afternoon! I began to sing quietly tomyself such songs as I knew: "Rule, Brittania," "God save the King,"and "A Life on the Ocean Wave." This I gave up at last, and thoughtout corking replies that I might have made to the prefects, had mywit been readier.

"Ding-ding-ding!" That was tea. Would Doe be any less happy when hesaw my vacant place, and wonder if I were very ill? How was Pennyfeeling, who had lifted up his heel against me? Might he, togetherwith Stanley and his colleagues, think me dying! What would Stanleyand the prefects do to Doe for his flagrant breach of their edict?Perhaps at this moment he was being tried by the great Stanley andhis Tribunal. Perhaps even now they had him bent over a chair andwere giving him a Prefects' Whacking. At any rate, I wished he wouldwalk in his sleep or do something that would bring him to thismonotonous sick-room. Why shouldn't he? Like me, he had been immuredindoors for ten days; like me, also, he had reasons for beingunhealthily excited.

"Ding-ding-ding!" I had closed my eyes when this bell sounded. Itmeant Preparation, so it must be getting dark. I would open my eyesand see. I did so, and saw nothing except darkness, which made methink I must have dozed. The sudden view of the darkness frightenedme, for I remembered the terror of the preceding night and that,before many hours, the whole world would be silenced in sleep, whileI might be wandering in the fearful cellars. At the thought my lipsformed the words: "O God, don't make me wake again in the OldLocker Room. O God, don't. I wish I had somebody to talk to."

As I mechanically uttered this prayer, I began to feel ratherstrongly that, if I were going to ask God to make this arrangementfor me, I ought to do something for Him. Clearly I must get out ofbed and say my prayers properly. So I stepped on to the floor,reeling dizzily from my enforced recumbence, and knelt by the sideof the bed. Falling into prayers that I knew by heart, and scarcelyheeding what I was saying, I prayed (as my mother had taught me todo when I was a little knickerbockered boy) for the whole chain ofgovernesses who had once taken charge of me. I enumerated them bytheir nicknames: "Tooby and Dinky and Soaky and Miss Smith."Trapping myself in this mistake, I actually blushed as I kneltthere. I realised that I must be more up to date. So I prayed forPenny, Freedham, Stanley, Bickerton, and Banana-Skin, but I drew upabruptly at Carpet Slippers. I couldn't forgive him. I felt I oughtto, but I couldn't. There, on my knees, I thought it all out; and atlast light broke upon me. To forgive didn't necessarily mean toforgo the punishment. Yes, I would forgive him and pray for him, buthis punishment would go on just the same.

After this satisfactory compromise I got back into bed, happy atbeing spiritually solvent, and repeating: "O God, don't make me wakein the Old Locker Room; I wish I had someone to talk to."

And almost immediately, as if my prayers were to be answered, Iheard the noise of feet running towards my door. It opened, andBickerton, taking no notice of me, walked to the middle of the room,struck a match, and lit the gas. Returning quickly, he said tosomeone else who was approaching: "Oh, there you are. I've lit thegas. Bring him and get him to bed. Put him beside the other ass forcompany." I sat up in my excitement, and with a thrill—first ofelation and then of dismay—saw Stanley enter, bearing a boy, who,with arms and legs hanging limply downwards, was apparentlylifeless: his fair head was a contrast with Stanley's dark bluesleeve on which it rested, and his brown eyes, wide open, wereshining in the gas like glass.

§4

In committee that morning Stanley and his colleagues had decidedthat Doe had deliberately asked for a Prefects' Whacking, and musttherefore be given an extra severe dose. He should be summoned tojudgment after games. So, just as Doe, who was standing bare-chestedin the changing room, had pushed his head into his vest, a voice,shouting to him by name, obliged him to withdraw it that he mightsee his questioner. It was Pennybet, acting as Nuncius from theprefects.

"You're in for it, Edgar Doe," said this graceful person, leisurelytaking a seat and watching Doe dress. "I'm Cardinal Pennybet, papallegate from His Holiness Stanley the Great. Bickerton had the sauceto send for me and to describe me as a ringleader in all yourabominations. I represented to him that he was a liar, and had beenknown to be from his birth, and that he probably cheated at Bridge;and he told me to jolly well disprove his accusation by fetching youalong. I explained they were making beasts of themselves over thisRay business—"

"It would have been more sporting of you," said Doe, drawing on histrousers and thanking Heaven that he was not as other men, nor evenas this Pennybet, "if you'd stuck by Rupert and defied theprefects."

"My dear Gray Doe," this statesman expounded, "I go in for nothingthat I can't win. And if you want to win, you must always make surethat the adverse conditions are beatable. I like to tamecirc*mstances to my own ends (hear, hear), but if they aren'ttamable I let them alone. So now you know. But about these prefects.They've got their cane ready, so push your shirt well down."

Doe studiously refused to hurry over his dressing, and, havingassumed his jacket, went to a mirror and took great pains with hishair. At this moment, though the hand which held the brush trembled,he was almost happy: for he was playing, I know, at being a FrenchAristocrat going to the guillotine dressed like a gentleman.

"My time is valuable," hinted Penny. "Still, by all means let us bespotless.... That's right. Now you look ripping. Come along, andI'll stand you a drink when it's over."

For Penny, the callous opportunist, had a sort of patronisingtenderness for his two acolytes.

Doe followed his conductor in a silence which not only saved himfrom betraying timidity by a trembling voice, but also suited thedignity of a French Aristocrat. But no—at this point, I think, hewas a Christian martyr walking to the lions.

"Come, my lamb, to the slaughter-house," said Penny, in the best ofspirits, "and don't try that looking-defiant game, 'cos it won'tpay. They're not taking any to-day, thank you. That's their tone....There's the door. Now remember not to say a word on your own behalf,for with these bally prefects anything that you say will be takendown in evidence against you.... Enter the prisoner, gentlemen.Sorry to be so long, but we had to make ourselves presentable.Anything else in the same line to-day?"

Penny paused for breath, but showed no desire to leave the Prefects'Room. He wanted to see at least the commencement of judicialproceedings. They looked so promising. All the Bramhall prefectswere there—Bickerton, Kepple-Goddard, and the prosecuting counsel,Banana-Skin; and Stanley—Stanley by the grace of God.

"Bring the boy Doe in," ordered Stanley, "and kick that gas-bagPennybet out. If he were a year younger we'd whack him too."

No one thought himself specifically addressed, and Penny was left inpossession of the floor. But Stanley's curt treatment rankled in hisheart. So, placing his feet wide apart and his hands in hiswaistcoat pockets, he respectfully drew attention to the opprobriousepithet "gas-bag" which had been employed in requesting him toretire from this Chamber of Horrors, and asked that the offensiveremark might be withdrawn.

Stanley scorned communication with an impertinent junior. Hetelegraphed a glance to Bickerton.

"Turf him out, Bicky."

But Penny, perceiving that rough treatment would ensue, gracefullyremoved himself from the room, so timing his motions that he closedthe door from outside just as Bickerton from within arrived at thehandle. Bickerton, defeated, swung round upon the assembly andasked if he should follow the fugitive.

"That kid's too smart to live," said Stanley, more generous than hispeers. "Let him be. He'd best you and a good many more of us.Besides, it's nearly tea-time, and we've got to get this Doebusiness over."

Bickerton accordingly took up his place on the fender and consideredhimself empanelled upon the jury. Doe stood with his hands behindhis back, his cheeks very flushed, and his knees slightly shivering,but upheld by the thought of his resemblance to Charles I. He wouldscorn to plead before this unjust tribunal.

"Now, Edgar Doe," began Stanley, and his voice was the signal forsilence in the court and for all eyes to be concentrated on theprisoner. "You've made a little fool of yourself. You've openly setus all at defiance and, no doubt, thought yourself mighty clever. Idon't think you'd have been so ready to do it if we hadn't beendecent and had you in here sometimes. But that's beside the point,only I may say in passing that we shan't have you here any more."

"I don't care," said Doe. "I don't want to come, and I wouldn't comeif you asked me."

"Yes, we all know that. It was the obvious thing to say, Mr. EdgarGray Doe. Now we aren't bullies, and perhaps, had you comforted yourfriend on the Q.T., and been copped doing so, we'd have let you off.But it's the beastly blatancy of it all that constitutes the gravityof your offence and detracts from its value as a self-denying act offriendship. Do I express myself clearly?" concluded Stanley, turningto his colleagues.

"Perfectly," said Kepple-Goddard.

"Well, Doe, did you grasp the drift of all I said?"

"I wasn't listening."

Stanley, nonplussed, looked round upon the jury. Banana-Skinmuttered: "The little devil!" Bickerton from the fender sighed:"St. St. Ah, me! to think how we've swept and garnished the GrayDoe! 'I never loved a dear gazelle, But what it turned and stung mewell.'"

"Dry up, Bicky," came the president's rebuke, "and go and turn awaythose kids who are making a row with their feet in the corridor.Remain on guard out there, if you don't mind. It's behaviour likeDoe's that makes these kids so uppish. Thanks, Bicky."

There was a sound of scurrying feet and repressed impish laughter,as Bickerton opened the door and shut it behind him.

"Now, Doe," resumed Stanley, "what have you to say for yourselfbefore we leave the talking and get to business?"

"Nothing," replied Doe, "except that I'll go on being pally with Raywhatever you do, you—you set of cads!"

"I say"—Stanley was keeping his temper—"don't play the persecutedhero defying the world. It won't wash here."

"I'm not playing the persecuted hero," retorted Doe loudly, but withdrowned eyes. "I didn't think myself mighty clever—I—"

"I thought you hadn't been listening," put in Banana-Skin in a quietand torturing way.

"And I thought you'd nothing to say for yourself," added another.

"Steady, Banana," remonstrated Stanley, "don't tease the kid."

"They're not teasing me. I don't care what they say or what any ofyou do."

"What a little liar it is!" taunted Banana-Skin, "when he's fairlyblubbing there."

"I'm not!"

"Fetch the cane out," pursued Banana-Skin, unheeding. "It's no goodtalking. Get him over that chair, Kepple."

"You shan't!" said Doe, trembling terribly.

"By jove!" cried Stanley, jumping up. "He's going to show fight, ishe? Pass over that cane. Now, bend over that chair, youngster."

"I won't."

"Look here, you unutterable fool. Here's the cane. See it? If you dowhat you're told you'll get a stiff whacking, but if you don't, byGod, there's no saying what you'll get."

Doe sprang forward, seized the cane, smashed it, and hurled thepieces into their midst. "Now then, you cads, you can't lick me, youbrutes, you fools! Come for me—you lot of great devils!" He roaredthis at them, and the last words were shouted in a burst ofhysterical crying. With head down he charged into Stanley, crashinghis fist on the senior prefect's chin.

The outraged prefects lost their heads. They surrounded him as hefought. Above the turmoil came the cries: "Get hold of the littledevil!" "Pin his hands to his sides!" "He shan't forget this!" "Triphim up, if you can't do anything else!" "It's not pluck, it'stemper!" "He's down—he's up again!" "By jove, the little blackguardis going to beat the lot of you!" "Get him on the ground—don't beafraid to go for him—he's asked for it." "That's right—got hiswrist? Twist it!" "Devil take it, he's wrenched it free again." "Getout of the light—I'll settle him!" "I've got him—no, by God, Ihaven't!"

Stanley, the first to recover himself, fell away from the rest.

"Come away, you fools. There are ten of you. Leave him alone."

"Can't help it!" yelled back Banana-Skin. "It's his fault. Let himhave it. That's right. Get him against the wall."

"Come away, you fools!" And Stanley began to pull them off and flingthem away furiously. Banana-Skin had a shock when he found himselfseized and hurled against the opposite wall.

It had been well had Stanley done this earlier, for Doe, turningvery white, fell forwards.

"Heaven save us!" exclaimed Stanley, as white as Doe. "We've done itnow. What brutes we are! Lock the door. He's fainted. By heaven, Iwish this had never happened!"

Doe had not fainted. He was in a state of semi-unconsciousness whenhe knew where he was, but it was a long way off—when he heard allthat was said, but it came from a great distance—when neither hisposition nor the sound of voices was of any interest to him, and hisonly desire was to pass into complete unconsciousness, which wouldbring rest and sleep. He felt them catch hold of him, one by thearmpits and another by the ankles, and knew that he was being liftedon to a table.

Then the voices began from the top of a great well, while he lay atthe bottom. He could hear what they said; but why would they persistin talking and keeping him awake? He was indifferent to them: theywere like voices in a railway carriage to a dozing traveller.

"I wouldn't have thought he had so much in him."

"Oughtn't we to undo his collar?"

Then the remarks evaporated into nonsense, but only for a space,after which the nonsense solidified into sentences again.

"Don't you think we ought to send for Chappy?"

"Wait and see if he'll come round. His colour's returning."

Doe was ascending from the bottom of his great well: the voices werebecoming distincter, a pain in his head and body worse.

"Yes, he's less white. Sprinkle water over his forehead."

Doe was coming up and must have reached the top, for it was raining.How silly! That wasn't rain, but the water being sprinkled over hisforehead. How hard the top of the well was! But there—he wasnowhere near a well, but in the Prefects' Room, lying on a dealtable. Or was he at the bottom of the sea?

"He's looking better now."

Up he came from the bottom of the ocean. Above him he could see thesurface, a broad expanse of pale green, through which the sun wastrying to shine and succeeding better every second. Though all thewhile conscious that his eyes were closed, he saw dancing on thegreen rippling veil, beneath which he lay, little spots of colourthat grew in number till they became a dazzling kaleidoscope.

"Doe, are you all right now?"

The kaleidoscope was gone; and the top of the sea was above him,getting steadily closer and brighter. Good—he was above the surfacenow, and the water seemed out of his ears, so that he heard withperfect clearness the voice of Stanley saying:

"That's right—you're round again."

Though his eyes were still shut he felt he must be awake, becausethe Prefects' Room with its furniture had crowded his mental vision.So he opened his eyes, and there, sure enough, were the prefects'chairs and cupboards; they seemed, however, to have moved with ajump from the positions they had occupied in his mental picture.

If you wake and see faces looking down on you, the natural thing todo is to smile round upon them all; and this Doe did, so that hispersecutors were touched, and Stanley said:

"How are you feeling now, kid? We're all of us beastly sorry."

"And I'm beastly sorry if I cheeked you."

"Well, never mind about that; but tell us if you're feeling putrid,because then we'll tell old Dr. Chapman and make a clean breast ofit. My colleagues and I are determined to do the right thing."

"Oh, I'm all right. Don't say anything to anyone."

Ding-ding-ding!

"Are you fit for walking in to tea?" asked Stanley.

"Rather! I'm quite the thing now. Thanks awfully."

So Doe, sustained by a pride in his determination to conceal whathad happened and screen the prefects, walked with racking head andaching limbs into tea, where he made a show of eating and drinking,though periodically the room went spinning round him.

Tea over, he staggered into the Preparation room and sat at his deskwith his brows on his hand and his eyes on his book. The printdanced before his gaze: letter rushed into letter, word mergedmistily into word, line into line, till all was a grey blur. A blinkof the eyes—an effort of the will—a sort of "squad, shun!" to thetype before him—and the words jumped back into their places,letters separated from their entanglement and stood like soldiers atspruce attention. A relaxing of the effort—and dismiss!helter-skelter, pell-mell went letter, word, and line. It was all ablur again. Once more he made the necessary exercise of his will andwas able to read a line or two; but, if the mistiness were not tocome before his eyes, the effort had to be sustained, and that madehis head feel very heavy. It proved too much for him; the will to doit expired, and away went the letters into the fog. Some boyswhispered that he was sighing for his friend Ray; others teased himby muttering: "Diddums get whacked by the prefects? Diddums get aleathering?"

Poor Doe! He must have been strongly tempted to retort: "I wasn'twhacked, so sucks!" and to describe that picturesque incident whenhe smashed the prefects' cane, for his milk was the praise of men.But he had to choose whether, by a little honourable bragging, heshould gratify his desire for glory, or by a martyr's silence heshould give himself the satisfaction of playing a fine hero. Thelatter was the stronger motive. He kept silence, and only hoped thathis valorous deeds would leak out.

Preparation was nearly over when there came one of thoseheart-stopping crashes which all who hear know to be the totalcollapse of a human being. A faint—aye, and a faint in the firstdegree, when life goes out like a candle.

"Who's that? What's that?" cried the master-in-charge, quicklyrising.

"It's Doe, sir. He's fainted."

"Oh, ah, I see," said he, leaving his desk and hastening to thespot. "Sit down, all of you. There's nothing very extraordinary in aboy fainting. Here, Stanley, pick him up and take him to thesick-room; and, Bickerton, go with him. The rest of you get on withyour work."

Thereafter Pennybet—or, at least, so he assured us—expended hisspare time in knocking his head against walls and holding his breathin the hope that he, too, might faint and have a restful holiday inthe sick-room.

"For," said he, "where Doe and Ray are, there should Me be also."

§5

"It's funny that we do everything together," said Doe that sameevening, as we lay in our beds and watched each other's eyes in thelight of the turned-down gas. "First we're twins; then we getwhacked together; then we both get rowed by prefects; and I do afaint and you do a sort of fit.... But, I say, Rupert, look here; Iwant to ask you something: will people think I was a fool ineverything I did, or will they think—well, the other thing? I mean,let's put it like this—what would Radley think?"

"I don't know," said I, not very helpfully.

"I s'pose he's heard all about it. I hope he has—at least, I mean,I'd like him to think I stuck by you. Only, when the prefects weretalking about defiance, it struck me that Radley might call it'insubordination.'"

There was a pause, and then he proceeded: "I wonder if he'll besorry when he hears we are both laid up."

"Who?"

"Why, Radley, of course."

"Mr. Radley," said a voice, "if you please."

Radley, who had walked softly lest the invalids should be wakenedfrom sleep, was standing in the room and looking at us in theglimmer. We were very surprised, and Doe's blushes at being caughtwere only exceeded by the pleasure-sparkling of his eyes.

Radley approached my bed and placed the clothes carefully over mychest. I didn't know whether to thank him for this, and only smiledand reddened. And after he had done the same for Doe he sat at thefoot of his bed.

"When the world turns against you, always go sick," said he,smiling. "It's an excellent rule for changing ill-will to sympathy.If you're sent to Coventry, go straight to bed there. Oh, you're asubtle pair, aren't you?"

We were both too shy to answer.

"Well, Ray, I've come to tell you to sleep with an easy mind. TheHead Master is satisfied that, if you were conducting operations inMr. Fillet's room, you were not conscious of it. It was Dr. Chapmanwho worked all this for you. He threatened to go on strike if anyother conclusion were come to. He asked the Head whether he'd everdreamt he was doing most impossible things. The Head said 'Yes,' andthe doctor replied triumphantly: 'Well, don't let your brain get asexcited as a child's, or, maybe, if you're feverish and run down,you'll go and do them.' He even suggested that possibly it was notyou but the Head who had committed the crime. He asked him if hecould imagine 'a silly and excitable kid' (which is an excellentdescription of Ray) dreaming that he had done what actually wasdone.... The Head was incredulous at first, but the doctor talked solearnedly about the Subliminal Consciousness and AlternatingPersonalities that the Head, if only for fear of getting out of hisdepth, began to yield. I drove home the advantage by saying that Ibelieved you didn't generally lie—which was true, wasn't it?"

"Good Lord, no!" I replied.

"Well, it will be some day." Radley rose and strolled to the door."Yes, there's been a slump in Rupert Ray recently, but I'm afraidthere'll be a boom in him when he comes back to work, and he'll gettoo big for his boots. It's a pity. Good-night."

And though Stanley, as we learnt later, had manfully revealed thefull story of Doe's sufferings at the hands of the prefects, Radleywalked away without giving the young hero one word of admiration.And as the door shut Doe turned round in his bed, so that his facewas away from me, and maintained a wonderful silence.

CHAPTER V

CHEATING

§1

Time carried us a year nearer the shadow of the Great War. Itbrought us to our fourteenth year, at which period Doe's mysteriousintrigue with Freedham still awaited solution, and my Armageddonwith Fillet still languished in a sort of trench-warfare.

It was now that our abominable form took to cheating once a week inFillet's class-room. A Roman History lesson left invitingly open theopportunity to do so. For Fillet's method of examining ouracquaintance with the chapter he had set to be learnt in Preparationwas invariably the same. He asked twenty questions, whose answers wehad to write on paper. He would then tell us the answers and allowus to correct our own work. After this he would take down our marks.

Now, our form had been organised by the all-powerful statesman,Pennybet, who had lately been reading the Progressive Papers, into aTrade Union, of which the President was Mr. Archibald Pennybet. Hehad decided (as it is the business of all trade unions to decide)that we were worked too hard. We must organise to effect animprovement in the conditions of living. To demand from the HeadMaster an instant reduction in the hours of labour didn't seemfeasible to our union of twenty members, but it would be quite easyby a co-operative effort to modify the extent of our Preparation. Ata mass-meeting of the workers Penny outlined his scheme—Penny lovedscheming, moving forces, and holding their reins.

It was a marvellous scheme. We were to leave undone our Preparationfor the Roman History lesson, and, when Fillet told us the answers,we were to write them down and credit ourselves with the marks."It's not cheating," explained our leader in his speech (and wewere all very glad, I think, to hear that it wasn't cheating),"because it's not an effort to take an unfair advantage of eachother. It's just a cordial understanding, by which we all lessen oneanother's burdens.

"I and my executive," continued Penny, "have all the details workedout to a nicety. Here is a table for the whole term, showing howmany marks each worker will give up week by week. It is so graduatedthat the clever fellows will end up at the top, and those who wouldnaturally slack will end up at the bottom. My executive has decidedthat Doe is about the brainiest, so he comes out first"—blushesfrom Doe—"and I myself am willing to stand at the bottom."

By this revelation of astonishing magnanimity Penny came out of thetransaction, as he did out of most things that he put his hand to,with nothing but credit.

For half a term this comfortable scheme ran as merrily as a streamdown hill. And then a strange thing happened to me. I was talkingone afternoon to Penny on the absurdities of the Solar System, whenI became conscious that my mind had closed upon seven words: "ThatRupert, the best of the lot."

"That Rupert, the best of the lot." What on earth had resuscitatedthose words? I politely bowed them out and continued myconversation. But the phrase had entered like a bailiff intopossession of my mind. Even as I put it from me, believing it wouldbe lost in the flow of an absorbing conversation, I knew that therehad appeared upon the horizon a cloud no bigger than a man's hand.

"That Rupert, the best of the lot." The words, as first told to meby my mother, had been the dying words of my grandfather, ColonelRupert Ray, with which he asked repeatedly for his dead son, myfather. So the words were uttered by the first Rupert Ray, appliedto the second, and recalled by the third at a most inopportunemoment. And the third would have bowed them out. Why? Because he wasa cheat? No—let us not be ridiculous—because he was in the midstof an important conversation.

I pretended to listen to Penny, but really I was reasoning somethingelse. I was admitting that, now that this little phrase had poppedup through some trap-door of my mind, my conscience, long dormant onthe cheating theme, would have to be talked round again. And, assomething like suspense set in, I was anxious to join issue at once.

I left Penny abruptly and retired to a window (as you will haveobserved it was my fashion to do), where I leant upon the sill andprepared to argue out the problem.

Our co-operative effort to avoid preparing our lesson, was it wrong?Yes. In spite of the old sophistry I knew it to be so. But whatattitude should one adopt? To refuse publicly to have any part inthe system would seem like mock-heroics. The only course open was tolearn the work and earn the marks. Inevitably I had arrived at theconclusion which I dreaded. To learn the work seemed a tasksurprisingly difficult and menacing after half-a-term's freedom. Ihugged that freedom. I wished my calm acquiescence in the system hadnot been ruffled.

To learn the work—it was a little thing surely: to learn it unseenand alone, while other boys went free of the labour, and gavethemselves the marks, notwithstanding. But no, I could no morepersuade myself that it was a little thing than I could believe thatany other course was the right one. I felt it was big—too big forme.

Then the old thought, probably not an hour younger than sin itself,was quick to take advantage of my indecision: I would go on as I wasa little while longer—till the end of the term—and then begin witha clean sheet. There was much to be said in favour of this: for see,if I were to do the thing thoroughly this term, I ought to forgo allthe marks that I had already come by dishonestly. To do that wasimpossible. The confession involved would court expulsion.Expulsion! As the word occurred to me, I realised the enormity of myoffence. How could I go on with that which, if detected, would meanexpulsion? To answer this question I went the whole dreary round ofreasoning once more and arrived at the conviction that the straightaction was incumbent upon me; which conviction I hastened to explainaway with the same dull casuistry. Sick and weary, I left thewindow-sill and ceased to think any more. My conscience had givenbattle to evil and neither lost nor won. Indecisive as the issuewas, I knew in my heart of hearts that it partook of the nature of adefeat.

Later on, I wrote to my mother quite an effective analysis of thisspiritual difficulty: and I wrote it, so she loves to say, on apostcard, and signed it "yours truly, Rupert Ray." Her reply I couldnot expect till Wednesday morning, the morning of the lesson. Ofthat I was glad. For to this extent I had temporised: I would waittill I heard from her before attempting to learn the work. Ifnecessary, I could cram it up on Wednesday morning. And with thissettlement I was satisfied in a sickly way.

§2

While Tuesday is passing in silence and inaction, and the issue ofthis crisis is in the bag of the postman, let me tell you somethingof my relations with my mother. Her love for me, I have said, was ofthe extravagant kind. It was ever and actively present. Though shedischarged her social duties with a peculiar grace, yet I am certainthat the thought she bestowed on them was an intruder amongst herthoughts of me. My figure was present to her in the drawing-room,the ball-room, or the theatre.

I fear I was not demonstrative in my affection for her. Perhaps,when we sat alone at dinner on holiday evenings, and her dress wasone that left her arms bare, I would think that the softness of thelimbs was such as to make one wish to touch them; and I would strokethem; or, when she laid her hand upon the table, I would rest my ownhot palm upon it. But I am certain that it was not till our storiesmarched into the shadow of the Great War that I became at alldemonstrative.

Enough of that, then—the postman's feet are on the steps ofBramhall House. May I just ask you to think of my mother as a verygracious lady, gracious in form and feature and character?

§3

When breakfast was over on Wednesday morning, I repaired to theSteward's Room, where letters had to be sought. I was attacked by afeverish nervousness, which increased as I passed other boysreturning with letters in their hands. Anxiety seemed to be aphysical thing deflating my breast and loins. My heart, too, wasaffected when I asked the Steward with feigned unconcern if therewere any letters for Ray. It beat rapidly as I awaited the reply.

None. I was stupefied: but soon stupefaction became anger; angerhardened into sulkiness; and, as more sinister feelings grew,sulkiness lost itself in guilty belief. Now I knew what course Iwould take—I would go on cheating.

I turned to go out. Since that afternoon when the choice betweengood and evil came so plainly before me, I had been dilly-dallyingat the spot where the two ways met. The more I hesitated, thegreater had become the desire to take the easier road. And now inopen rebellion against my scruples I stepped firmly upon it. Myreasoning was played out, and, as I walked back along the corridor,I felt like one released from irksome fetters. Oh, it was good to befree! At the same time, however, with the obstinacy of one who seeksto justify himself, I muttered: "She might have written, I think,she might have written."

Then a step sounded behind me, a hand touched my shoulder, so thatmy heart jumped like a startled frog, and Radley said:

"Come and have a talk with me a minute."

§4

My mother had written, but not to her son. The postman, whodisappointed me, brought a graceful note to Radley:

"I am most sorry for this trespass upon your time, and yet I have little hesitation in asking your help in a matter that concerns my son. Rupert, in his talks during the holidays, so often mentions your name, that it is not difficult to see that he owes you a good deal. Although he is too reserved to say so, I fancy he is quite devoted to you. His postcard, which I enclose, will explain all.

"May I take this opportunity of expressing my thanks, and of saying how grateful his father would have been for all that you are doing for our son?"

Radley, when we reached the privacy of his room, took up hisfavourite position of sitting on the edge of the table. Before himstood I, all reasoning suspended.

"Well, how's the cheating going on?" he asked.

"What ch—?"

"Stop! Don't say 'What cheating?' because that would be acting alie. I tell you what we'll do. We'll wait a whole minute before youanswer me. We'll collect our thoughts and think whether we'll actstraightly or crookedly." He took his watch off his chain and placedit upon the table beside him. "Right, we're off."

As the seconds sped by I tried to find some excuses. But, bewilderedand sick, I could only wonder how he came to know of it all. I hadfound no answer when I saw him replacing his watch on his chain.

"Well, Ray, how's the cheating going on?"

"I didn't think it exactly cheating."

"Ray, don't." Radley protruded and withdrew his lower jaw withirritation. "You know it was cheating. If you didn't, why did youknow what I was referring to? Well, we'll have another sixtyseconds' interval. We must have time to think, or else we lie."

Out came the watch again. The pantomime of waiting in silence and ofreplacing the watch was re-enacted. Then Radley, half smiling, as ifhe knew the worst was over, took up his question once more.

"Well, how's the cheating going on?"

Since I was not allowed to prevaricate, all that remained for me todo was to return no reply. But there was stubbornness in my silence;I should have liked to say pettishly: "But you won't let me explain,you won't let me explain."

And then—quickly—Radley grasped me by the elbow and lookedstraight down at me. For a second I resisted and tried to pull theelbow away. His grip, however, was too strong, and I yielded.

I know now that his feeling for all the boys, as he gazed down uponthem from his splendid height, was love—a strong, active love. Wewere young, human things, of soft features gradually becoming firmeras of shallow characters gradually deepening. And he longed to be init all—at work in the deepening. We were his hobby. I have metmany such lovers of youth. Indeed, I think this is a book aboutthem.

And, as I am certain of his feelings for us all, so am I certain ofhis feelings for myself. Those who were most pliant to his touchloomed, of course, largest in his thoughts: and my mother's letter,giving him the proof of my affection, which, since it was lessobtrusive than Doe's, had been probably less clear to him, broughtme in the foreground of his view. Be it right or wrong, this manwith the hard chin and kind eyes had his favourites; and I date fromthis moment my usurping of Doe's position as Radley's foremostfavourite. The way in which he took hold of my elbow, my willingsubmission of the army to his grasp told me that something was givenby him and taken by me. And my eyes, as was to be expected of them,became suddenly moist and luminous.

"Time's going," he said, "and this Roman History lesson is upon us.Have you learnt it?"

"No, sir."

"Well, the issue is simple: either you continue cheating, or yougive up no marks. Shall you cheat any more?"

"N-no, sir."

"Good, then you give up no marks."

"All right, sir."

"Well, hurry away. And if, when the big moment comes, you succeed indoing what's right, come and see me again."

§5

The big moment came. Fillet opened his mark-book and read the namesin the order of last term's examination-list, which brought Doe'sname first. Doe was mending a nib when his name was called, and,without raising his head, replied "100, sir."

Other names followed, and the boys gave up the marks allotted themby Penny's system. Then came mine.

"Ray?"

For a second my voice or will failed me, so I pretended I had notheard, and let him ask again.

"Ray?"

"None, sir."

Every boy turned towards me, and my cheeks burned to maroon. Icaught mutters of "Well, I'm hanged!" "Ye gods!" "Good-night!"

"Wh-what did you say?" stuttered Carpet Slippers.

I was irritated and nervous and replied rather too loudly:

"None, sir."

"None? Why none?"

"I didn't learn it."

The mutterings began again: "Oh, I say, stow it!" "Lie down."

"You didn't learn it? St-stand up when I question you. Wh-why didn'tyou learn it?"

Here I failed. I had answered the first two questions truthfullybecause I had reasoned about them. The third took me unawares. And,such is the result of trifling with conscience, I had lost the knackof doing right without premeditation. "We must have time to think,"Radley had said bitterly, "or else we lie." Obliged to answerwithout delay, I lied.

"I hadn't time, sir."

No sooner had I uttered the words than the dull and sickening senseof failure came over me. In spite of all—in spite of the fact thatI had dealt honourably with the first two questions—I had ended bylying. I sat down slowly, and stared vacantly in front of me. Thebig moment had come and passed, and I had missed it. I couldn'tbelieve it. I had been determined, and yet I had failed. My breathbecame tremulous, and across my brows went the sudden invasion of aheadache.

Little it matters what Fillet said. Destiny ordains for ourcorrection that there shall be some people before whom we shallalways appear at our worst. Fillet occupied that place in myschooldays.

Little would it matter, either, what my fellow trade-unioniststhought of this black-leg in the camp, were it not for theremarkable deed of Pennybet. He, I am convinced, felt that he mustrise to the occasion. There were few things he liked better thanrising to an occasion. Here was an opportunity for a coup d'état.Here, praise the gods, were circ*mstances to be tamed. So he at oncethrew all his weight on my side, knowing full well that he had butto do that to secure me from all persecution or contempt.

"P-pennybet?"

"Oh—er—none, sir."

"None? Another boy with none? Why none?"

Penny admired the nails on his right hand and then said:

"I didn't exactly learn it."

"Oh, indeed? And wh-why, pray?"

As though deploring such tactless persistency, Penny pursed up hismouth, laid his head on one side, shrugged his shoulders, and heldhis peace.

"Had you, too, no time?"

"Well, not a great deal, sir."

There were some titters, and Penny looked deprecatingly in thedirection whence they came. Fillet passed judgment so severe thatPenny made a shocking grimace and said: "Thank you, sir. It shallnot occur again," which, to be sure, might have meant anything.

I think the characters of both my friends stood out, clearlydefined, in the words with which they referred to this incidentafterwards. Doe was generous in his praise. "Golly," he said, "Iwish I could feel I had done it as you can now. I cursed my luckthat my name didn't come after yours, so that I could have stood byyou, as Penny did. I could have throttled him with jealousy. Do youknow, I almost wished the other boys had mobbed you a bit, so that Icould have stuck by you." And Penny said: "You didn't really think Iwas going to throw the weight of my trade union on to the side ofthat foul, caitiff knave of a Carpet Slippers? Why, the man's a lowfellow—the sort of person one simply doesn't know. He'd drink hisown bath-water."

§6

"If you succeed in doing what is right, come and see me again." Idecided to stay away. Many times that morning I passed Radley in theschool buildings, and, pretending not to have seen him, went by witha hum or a whistle. In the afternoon he came and coached our game atcricket; and after tea he bowled at the Bramhall Nets where I waspractising. When he instructed me he spoke as though there werenothing between us. But he was watching me, I knew; wondering why Ihad not come, and longing for me: and I rather overplayed my part.

It had been a grey, dull day, but, just before retiring, the suncame out and shamed the clouds into a sullen withdrawal. Then itwent under, leaving behind it a glorious red glow and the hope ofbetter things in the morning. All this I was in the mood to notice,for, though trying to be indifferent to destiny, I was heavy anddispirited. I did not see how I could ever do right again, sinceRadley's determination and my own had been insufficient to brace mefor the onslaught. It was evident that mine was the stuff from whichcriminals were made.

And, as the red glow departed and the darkness gathered, if therewas one lonely boy in the world, languidly despairing, it was I.Many times I found myself uttering aloud such slang expressions as:"Oh, my hat! If only I had told the beastly truth for the thirdtime! Dash it, why didn't I? Why the deuce didn't I?" I addressedmyself as: "You blithering, blithering fool!" And my temples beganto ache and now and then to hammer. For, always in these my earlydays of puberty, excitement and worry produced such immediatesensuous results.

Radley sent for me at last, and it was a relief to go. He was verykind. Frankly, I believe he was pleased to have his new favourite inhis room again. I was indeed his hobby at present.

"Have I ever bullied you at the nets," he said, "for stepping backto a straight ball?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, the universal habit of 'stepping back' is exactly parallel tothat of arguing with conscience. The habit grows; one's wicketalways falls after a few straight balls; and one's batting goes frombad to worse. Never mind, you stood up splendidly to the first twostraight balls and scored boundaries off both. That shows you aregetting into your old form. You are out of practice a bit, that'sall."

And I went out of his room, feeling sure that for some time I wouldbe very good.

§7

I always left Radley's room, feeling that I could blast a waythrough every mountain. And it was not long after he had received mymother's letter with its allusion to my lack of a father, that headdressed himself to a bigger mountain than any of these littletrumpery hills that you have watched me conquering. He invited me tohis room one evening, and sat me in an armchair opposite him: andthen he talked, while I watched the fire getting redder, as the roomgrew darker. Soon he came unhesitatingly to a subject that I wasjust at an age to understand. He spoke so fearlessly as to be quiteunrestrained and natural. Nevertheless, I was glad that the room wasgetting darker, as I felt that my cheeks were red and hot. And whenhe said: "You mustn't mind my talking to you like this," I couldonly reply: "Oh, it's all right, sir."

But, once again, I left his room feeling that, though already I hadhad my reverses in the moral contest of which he spoke, I would winthrough in the end.

CHAPTER VI

AN INTERLUDE

In the summer holidays of that year I received a letter from Doeinviting me to spend a few days with him at his Cornish home on theFal. Radley, he told me, was already his guest.

There was some excitement the morning I left home for this adventureinto the West Country. My mother had clothed me in a new dark-bluesuit. Her son must look his best, she said. She insisted on mywearing a light-blue tie, for "it matched the colour of my eyes." Irather opposed this on the ground that it was "all dashed silly."But she disarmed me by pointing out that I was her doll and not myown, and the only one she had had since she was my age, which was acentury ago—a terrible lie, as she looked about twenty-seven. Shecarried her point with a kiss, called me her Benjamin, tied the tievery gingerly, and subsequently disarranged it completely by huggingme to say good-bye, as though I were off for a lifetime.

Alone in my corner seat I was rolled over the Trail of Beauty thatthe line of the Great Western follows. And I watched the telegraphwires switchbacking from post to post, as we sped along.

When we steamed into Falmouth station, I easily distinguishedRadley's majestic figure standing on the platform, with Doe actuallyhanging on his arm—a thing I would never have dared to do. In fact,I guessed that Doe was doing it for my benefit. Our young host wasin a light grey suit that would have brought tears to the eyes ofKensingtowe's administrators, who stipulate for dark garments only:and, evidently, he had been allowed to dictate to his tailor, forthe suit was an exact copy of one that Radley had worn during theprevious term. He looked more than ever like his nickname, "the GrayDoe."

Next morning the sun blazed out over England's loveliest stream,the Fal, as, widening, it flowed seaward. We hurried down to thefoot of Doe's garden, where a rustic boat-house sheltered hisprivate vessel, the Lady Fal. Doe stepped into its stern, and Iinto its bows, and Radley took the oars. With a few masterlymanœuvres he turned the boat into midstream, and then pulled arapid and powerful stroke towards Tresillian Creek, where we haddecided to bathe. We touched the bank at a suitable landing-place,disembarked, and prepared to undress.

The events of this day linger with me like a string of jewels; andthe bathe was one of the brightest of them all. There was a racebetween Doe and myself to be first in the water. As I tossed off myclothes, the excitement of anticipation was inflating me. I wouldsurprise them with my swimming.

My mother had taught me to swim. We began our studies in the bath,when I was still a baby, she leaning over the side and directing mysplashing limbs. We achieved the desired result some years later inthe French seas off Boulogne. She never could swim a stroke herself,but was splendid in the book-work of the thing. Since those days shehad given me unlimited opportunities to acquire perfection. So now,Radley and Doe, my masters, you should learn a thing or two!

The undressing race resulted in a dead-heat, but whereas Doecontented himself with a humble jump into the stream, I contrived toexecute a racing dive. Glorious immersion! It was lovely, oh,lovely! The embrace of the cool river seemed entrancing, and Iremained a fathom down, experiencing one continuous delight.Unfortunately I was under water longer than my breath would holdout, and came to the view of Radley and Doe, choking and splutteringand splashing. Anxious to retrieve my reputation, for I wasdetestably conceited about my art, I started off for a long, speedyswim, displaying my best racing stroke. Back again, at an evenfaster pace, I got entangled with Doe, who greeted me a littlejealously with: "Gracious! Where did you learn to swim like that?"Radley's mouth was set, and he remained mercilessly silent. Hewasn't going to teach me conceit.

Soon we were clothed again, and back in the boat with untidy wethair and stinging eyes, but with the glow of health warming ourbodies.

Throughout the day we plied our craft over the Fal, lunching upKing Harry Reach, and taking tea not far from Truro. When we turnedthe head of the Lady Fal for home, the sun was sinking fast, andRadley pulled his swiftest, as he wished to be at Graysroof beforedark. So I lay in the bows and wondered at the straightness of hisback, and Doe nestled in the stern and admired the width of hischest.

We glided over the surface: and there were no sounds anywhere, savethe rushes kissing the reeds, the water lapping the sides of theboat, the little fishes chattering beneath, and the rhythmic musicof Radley's graceful feathering, which sounded like the flutter of abird upon the wing.

To dwell upon this beautiful evening is to recover a little of itsserene exaltation. I like to recall it as one of those days aboutwhich we ask ourselves why we did not value them more when we hadthem. I speak of it here, because, in the soothing peace of the Falthat twilight, the Æsthetic seemed to stir in me—not so as to wake,but so as to wake soon. I felt some vague premonition of all thelove, the sentiment, and the sorrow which would be mine in themanhood that was brightening to a pale, but tinted, dawn.

Part II: Long, Long Thoughts

CHAPTER VII

CAUGHT ON THE BEATEN TRACK

§1

I am sixteen now, and the marks on the dormitory wall show me that Iam many inches nearer the height of my ambition, which is the heightof Radley. Second in importance, Kensingtowe has a new headmaster,an extraordinary phenomenon in the scholastic heavens, a long man ofcallow years and restless activity, with a stoop and a pointingforefinger. He has a quaint habit, when addressing a bewilderedpupil, of prefacing his remarks, be they gracious or damnatory, withthe formula: "Ee, bless me, my man." (Nowadays none of us speaks toa schoolfellow without beginning: "Ee, bless me, my man.") "Salome"we call the entertaining creature. This nickname adhered like abarnacle to him, immediately after he had employed, in his exegesisof the Greek narrative of Herodias' daughter, the expression: "Now,if I had been Salome—"

Ill fares it with a youth, if he has his hands in his pockets and isseen by Salome. Before he is aware of the great presence, that stoopoverhangs him, that forefinger points to the tip of his nose, and adrawling voice says with rhythmic emphasis: "Ee, bless me, myman, you've got—your hands—in your pockets. Take off yourspectacles, sir. I'm going—to smack—your face."

And he can put his foot down, too. The Bramhallites recentlyorganised a very successful punitive raid on the local errand boys,who were getting too uppish, and now he has stopped all "exeats"for the members of Bramhall House. The town is out of bounds.

Third in importance is my quarrel with Edgar Doe. It began, I think,with his jealousy of me as Radley's new favourite. Then he hasapparently thrown over all desire for glory in the cricket world anddecided that, for an elect mind such as his, a reputation forintellectual brilliance is the only seemly fame. He delights toshock us by boldly saying that he would rather win the Horace Prizethan his First Eleven Colours; and is actually at work, I believe,on a translation of the Odes into English verse. At any rate, he istwo forms ahead of Penny and me, and has joined the Intellectuals.He has views on the Pre-Raphaelites, Romanticism, and the HousingQuestion.

Maybe, too, I have been very willing for the quarrel to proceed,because he will persist in his collusion with that mystery-man,Freedham.

Archibald Pennybet is the same as ever, unless, perhaps, his eyelidsare drooping a little more in satisfaction with himself, and hisnostrils becoming more sensitive to the inferiority of everybodyelse.

In a rash moment, one half-holiday, Penny and I made use of theprivilege, to which we became entitled when we completed two yearsat Kensingtowe, of strolling across to the Preparatory Schooland organising a cricket match between some of the younger"Sucker-boys." Not being allowed to go down to the town, we thoughtthere might be fun in playing the heavy autocrat at the "Nursery."

"We'll make these beastly little maggots sit up, unless they playproperly," said Penny. "There shall be no fooling when we umpire."

The Suckers received us with gratifying awe. One of them in a momentof forgetfulness called Pennybet "sir." He accepted it withoutremark, as his due.

For half-an-hour we did well. Six balls went to every "over," nomore and no less. Our decisions, when we were appealed to, weregiven promptly and decisively. But the boys were so small, and theplay was so bad, that the novelty soon wore off. Our feeling ofimportance died away, when we realised we were umpiring in a matchwhere the stumps were kept in position by the bails, and there wasno one who could bowl a straight ball, or anyone who could hit it,if he did. The wicket-keeper, also, gave Penny much trouble; andsulked because he had been forbidden to stop the swift bowler'sdeliveries by holding a coat in front of him and allowing the ballto become entangled in its folds. My fellow-umpire had occasion tospeak very seriously to him. "Really," he said, "you're a stench inmy nostrils. Mr. Ray, who's kindly umpiring for you at the otherend, never gave me half the cheek you do, when he was a kid." Fora second the little boy wondered if he had made a mistake and Pennywas really a master.

Having given eight balls to an over, I got bored and retired to myposition at square-leg, displeased with the condition on which ourprivilege was granted that, having organised a game, we were toremain at our posts to the end. Someone awoke Penny, who walked witha yawn to the bowler's wicket, and, graciously putting into hismouth a huge green fruit-ball, offered by one of the more minuteplayers, said with this obstruction on his tongue:

"Plo-ay."

When the twenty-eighth ball of that over had been bowled, I wentacross to Penny, presented my compliments, and intimated that sixballs constituted an over. In a reply of some length he showed thathe had a sucked fruit-ball in his mouth, which he must of necessityfinish before he called "over," as the word required a certainrounding of the lips, and the confectionery might shoot out of hismouth at the effort. An impertinent little junior echoed mycriticism.

"Yes," he protested, "there are six balls to an over."

Penny placed the fruit-ball between his gums and his cheek, andanswered magnificently:

"There are not. There are just as many as I choose to give."

Then he took the fruit-ball on his tongue again and added:

"We-soom your plo-ay."

The bowler having exerted himself twenty-nine times, was a littletired and erratic, and the thirtieth ball hit Square-leg in thestomach.

"Wide," announced Penny, without a smile.

The thirty-first ball, amid disorderly laughter, was caught byPoint before it pitched. The batsman meanwhile sat astride his bat:he was the only person who seemed out of harm's way. Point held upthe ball triumphantly and yelled to Penny: "What's that, umpire?"

"I think it would not be unreasonable," answered Penny, "to callthat a wide."

This was a long sentence, and the fruit-ball shot out about half-waythrough.

Relieved of this confectionery, Penny proceeded to give a practicalillustration of "How to bowl." I fear he intended to show off, andto send down a ball at express speed which should shatter thestumps. At any rate, while the Suckers watched with breathlessinterest, he took a long run and let fly. One thing in favour ofPenny's ball was that it went straight. But it flew two feet overthe head of the batsman, who flung himself upon his face. It pitchedopposite Long-stop.

"Run!" yelled the batsman, picking himself up. "Bye! Run, youfool! Bye, idiot!" This was addressed to the batsman at the otherend, who was swinging his bat like an Indian club and paying noattention to the game. He pulled himself together on being appealedto, and ran, but it was evident that he could not reach his crease,as Long-stop had accidentally stopped the lightning-ball—much tohis own chagrin—and was hurling it back to the wicket-keeper withall the enthusiasm of acute agony.

Our unhappy batsman did what excitable little boys always do—flungin his bat and sprawled on the ground. The bat struck thewicket-keeper, who had just knocked off the bails. It hit him, so hesaid, on his bad place.

"Out," ruled I.

"Over," proclaimed Penny victoriously, as who should say: "There!I've got a man out for you"; and he retired honourably to the legposition, where he composed himself for a happy day-dream.

The new bowler at my end began by bowling swift. The wicket-keeperjumped out of the way, as his mother would have wished him to do,and Long-stop shut his eyes and hoped for the best. The batsmanblindly waved his bat, and, inasmuch as the ball hit it, andrebounded some distance, called to his partner, who was mending thebinding on his bat-handle.

"Will you come? Osborne, you fool! Yes. Yes. YES! No, no.YE-E-ES! No—go back, you fool. All right, come. No-no-no. O,Osborne, why didn't you run that? It was an easy one."

"Silly ass, Osborne," roared Cover-point, quite gratuitously, for noone had addressed him for the last twenty minutes.

The batsman ran wildly out to the next ball and missed it. Thewicket-keeper successfully stumped him. It was a clear case of"out," and a shout went up: "How's that?"

"That," said Penny, who had been in a dream and seen nothing, "isNot Out."

I was disheartened to learn on this occasion that little boys couldbe so rude to those who were sacrificing their spare time to teachthem cricket.

"Really," sighed Penny, adjusting his tie, "unless you treat me withdue respect, I will not come and coach you again."

This was greeted with an unmannerly cheer.

"Resume your play," commanded Pennybet. "It was Not Out."

"Why?" loudly demanded the bowler.

Penny seized the only escape from his sensational error.

"Because, you horrid little tuberculous maggot, it was a no-ball.Besides, you smell."

The little boy looked defiantly at him, and, pointing to me, said:

"Bowler's umpire didn't give 'no-ball.'"

"Then," said Penny promptly, "he ought to have done."

I was so shocked at this unscrupulous method of sacrificing me tosave his reputation that I shouted indignantly: "You're a liar!"

Later a warm discussion arose between the batsman and the bowler asto whether the former could be out, if "centre" had not been givento him properly. I took no part in it, but looked significantly atPennybet. He gazed reproachfully at me, as much as to say: "Howcould you suggest such a thing?" I walked over to him, ostensibly toask his advice. The quarrel continued, most of the fieldsmenasserting that the batsman was out: they wanted an innings.Unperceived, we strolled leisurely away and disappeared round acorner. The last thing that I heard was the batsman's voiceshouting: "I'm not an ass. I haven't got four legs, so sucks foryou!"

§2

Reaching the road, we linked arms with the affection born of sharinga crime and the risk of detection.

"Where are we going to?" asked I.

"Ee, bless me, my man. Down town, of course."

"But it's out of bounds."

"Ee, bless me, my man, don't you know that to me all rules are butgossamer threads that I break at my will? I'm off to buy sausages. Ihaven't had anything worth eating since the holidays."

And so, arm in arm, we marched briskly down the Beaten Track. TheBeaten Track, I must tell you, was a route into the town whichPenny, Doe, and I regarded as our private highway. We would haveesteemed it disloyalty to an inanimate friend to approach the townby any other channel. It led through the residential district ofKensingtowe, past a fashionable church, and down a hill. Dear oldBeaten Track! How often have I mouched over it, alone and dreamy,adjusting my steps to the cracks between its pavement-flags! Howoften have I sauntered along it, arm in arm with one of my friends,talking those great plans which have come to nothing!

We always became confidential on the Beaten Track; and to-day Isuddenly pressed Penny's arm and opened the subject that, though Iwould not have admitted it, was the most pressing at the moment.

"I say, why does Doe avoid us now?"

"The Gray Doe," sneered Penny. "Oh, he—She's in love, I suppose.With Radley."

"Don't drivel," I commanded; "why does he hang about with that awfulFreedham?"

"When you're my age, Rupert," began Penny, in kind and accommodatingexplanation, "you'll know that there are such things as degeneratesand decadents. Freedham is one. And very soon Doe will be another."

"Well, hang it," I said, "if you think that, how can you joke aboutit, and leave him to go his way?"

"Oh, the young fellow must learn wisdom. And he's not in any dangerof being copped. I'm the only one that suspects; and I guessedbecause I'm exceptionally brilliant. Besides, if he wants to go tothe devil for a bit, you can't take his arm and go with him."

"No," said I, "but you can take his arm and lug him back."

"There are times, Rupert," conceded Penny graciously, "when you showdistinct promise. I have great hopes of you, my boy."

"Oh, shut up!" I said, mentally overthrown to find that, withoutforewarning of any kind, something had filled my throat like a sobof temper. What was the matter with me? I unlinked my arm and walkedbeside Penny in moody silence, determining that at an earlyopportunity I would bring about a quarrel between us which shouldnot be easily repaired. He, however, was disposed to continue beinghumorous, and frequently cracked little jokes aloud to himself."Here's the butcher's shop," he explained, pointing to an array ofcarcasses; "hats off! We're in the presence of death." And, when hehad purchased his sausages, he stepped gaily out of the place,saying: "Come along, Rupert, my boy. Home to tea! Trip along atNursie's side." Just as I, thoroughly sulky, was wondering how bestto break with him, and deciding to let him walk on alone a hundredyards, before I resumed my homeward journey, I heard his voicesaying:

"Talking about Doe, there he is. And the naughty lad has beenstrictly forbidden to enter the town. Dear, dear!"

It was an acute moment. There, far ahead of us, was Doe in thecompany of Freedham, with whom he was turning into a doorway. A pangof jealousy stabbed me, and with a throb, that was as pleasing aspainful, I realised that I loved Doe as Orestes loved Pylades.

The truth is this: ever since our form had been engaged on Cicero's"De Amicitia," I had wanted to believe that my friendship for Doewas on the classical models. And now came the gift of faith. It wasborn of my sharp jealousy, my present weariness of Pennybet, and myheroic resolution to rescue Doe from the degenerate hands ofFreedham. Only go nobly to someone's assistance, and you will lovehim for ever. Love! It was an unusual word for a shy boy to admitinto his thoughts, but I was even taking a defiant and maliciouspleasure in using it. I was Orestes, and I loved Pylades.

In the glow of this romantic discovery, I no longer thought Pennyworth any anger or resentment, so I slipped my arm back into his. Hepatted my hand with just such an action as an indulgent father woulduse in welcoming a sulky child who has returned for forgiveness.After this we climbed the slope of the Beaten Track at a fasterpace. And then—what an afternoon of strange moods and tense momentsthis was!—I encountered on the other side of the road the surprisedgaze of Radley.

It was a very awkward recognition, and I hope he felt half asuncomfortable as I did. I pinched Penny's arm and hurried him onquickly.

"Don't push me," he grumbled. "The damage is done. And it's all yourfault for leading me astray. Radley'll tell. He never spares anyone;least of all, his pets, like you. There's one comfort; I can't bewhacked; I'm too old. But you'll get it, Rupert. Salome's alreadydone several of the sixteen-year-olds. Cheer up, Rupert!"

"Hang you, I don't want your sympathy," I retorted sullenly. And asI said it, I passed through Kensingtowe's gates to the punishmentthat awaited me within.

§3

We were not summoned for judgment for several uneasy hours. It wasdreary, waiting. About six o'clock I paid a lonesome visit to theswimming baths, and was glad to find them deserted. Even JerryBrisket, the professional instructor, was not in his little privateroom. Jerry Brisket, that supreme swimmer, loomed as an heroicfigure to me who fancied myself no common devotee of his art. I hadoften thought that my ideal would be to build a private swimmingbath and to employ Jerry at a salary of some thousands as my ownparticular coach. But to-night, in spite of this lavish worship, Iwas relieved to find him absent. I flung off my clothes and took along, splashless dive into the shallow end.

Water was my favourite element, especially the clear, green water ofthe baths. I loved to feel that it was covering every part of mybody. With my breast nearly touching the tiled bottom, I swam underwater for a long spell. And, moving down there, like a young eel, Icompared this dip with that in the beautiful Fal of a year ago.Certainly there was still pleasure, glorious pleasure, in completesubmersion, but on that bejewelled day there was joy above as wellas below the surface. This evening all that awaited me, when I rosefrom the transparent water, was punishment and indignity.

"Hang it," I said to myself. "I think I'll stay in the baths. Theycan't dive after me here."

With the unreasonableness of guilt I stigmatised all those plottingmy hurt as "they." I did not specialise individuals, possiblybecause Radley was one. They were "they"—a contemptible "they."

"They are brutes," I concluded, "and I don't care a hang for any ofthem."

Then, in the luxury of defiance, I swam my fastest and most furiousracing-stroke, till my breath gave out with a gasp, my breast feltlike bursting, and my heart beat heavily on my ribs. So I lay supineupon the water, closed my eyes, and derived a surfeit of joy fromthis rest after fatigue.

And, while I was doing that, I suffered a queer thing. Through myclosed lids I saw a yellow atmosphere that was fast whitening. Itseemed to smell very sweet; and the sensation of seeing it andsmelling it was intoxicatingly delightful. It was like an opiate.What Freedham was doing in the atmosphere I know not, but I saw him,as one would in a dream. An exquisite sleepiness was entrancing me,when the cold water rushed in at my ears and mouth, and with an"Oh!" and a choking, I struggled to the rope. Dizzily, and feeling apain in my head and neck, I scrambled out and lay upon the coldsides of the baths.

"Heavens!" thought I. "That was a close shave. I must have strainedmyself and nearly fainted. Why have I got that ass, Freedham, on thebrain?"

At that moment the sound of Jerry Brisket's return caused me tojump up and dress. I was quite recovered, but tired and depressed.And, as a result of the curious conditions of the evening, thereseemed to be gathering about me a presentiment of disaster.

When I passed Jerry's door on my way out of the building, I thoughtI would like to hear a friendly voice, so I called:

"Good-night, Jerry."

He came to the door in his white sweater and white trousers.

"Good-night, Mr. Ray. Where are you off to now?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I'm off to be walloped."

Jerry was too courteous to seek particulars.

"Oh, bad luck," he said. "Come to the baths this time to-morrow, andit'll be all over."

"Oh, I don't mind, it, Jerry," I replied. "Good-night"; and, lettingthe door swing behind me, I passed out of the baths.

"Good old Jerry," I murmured sentimentally. "By Jove, if I couldonly swim like him! Dear—old—Jerry."

An unaccountable melancholy overcame me, as I rambled in thisstrain. I sighed: "I think I'm getting too old to be whacked."

And, as I phrased the thought, walking dreamily outside the baths,the strangest thing of this evening happened. There seemed to bethrown over me, far more heavily than on that evening up the Fal,the shadow of my oncoming manhood. And with it came ineffablelongings—longings to live, and to feel; to do, and to be. The vaguewish to avoid the indignity of corporal punishment threw off itscloak and showed itself to be Aspiration. There, outside the baths,the Æsthetic awoke in me. The sensation, infinitely sad and yetpleasing, was so complete that it left me hot-cheeked andwondering....

In truth, so warm and all-pervading was it that the other day, whenduring a short leave from France I stood on the gravel that sweepsto the entrance of the baths, I felt the memory of that moment ofyearning egoism hanging over the spot like a restless spirit of thepast.

§4

The whole period of Preparation passed in suspense. And, when thebell had gone, Penny and I found our way to one of the Bramhallclass-rooms, where I sat upon the hot-water pipes (the wisdom ofwhich proceeding I have since doubted). After about five minutesthere rushed in a bad little boy who, having more relish in thethought of his message than breath to deliver it, puffed out: "Oh,there you are. I've searched for you everywhere." Then he paused,recovered his breath, and actually pointed a finger at us, saying:

"Ee, bless me, my men, Salome wants you in Radley's room."

Penny took the small boy's head and banged it three times on a desk.

In Radley's familiar room we found Salome, who no sooner saw me thanhe cried:

"Ee, bless me, my man. Will you take—your hand—out of yourpocket?"

This was such a surprise that I blushed and—oh, accursednervousness!—began to giggle. My terror at giggling in the Presencewas so real that I compressed my lips to secure control. But controlwas as impossible as concealment. Salome came very close, pointed atmy mouth, and said:

"I think you're giggling. Take off that ridiculous expression, myman. I'm going—to smack—your face."

Sobered in a moment, I composed my features for the punishment andreceived it, stinging and burning, on my reddened cheek.

Salome again pointed at me.

"You're a sportsman, sir, a sportsman, and I like you," anaffection which I at once reciprocated.

"Ee, bless me, my man," he pursued. "What's your horrible name?"

"Ray, sir."

"Well, Ray, I'm going to cane you hard"—(rather crudely expressed,I thought)—"because your offence is serious, bless me, my man"—(anunreasonable request at this stage).

He took out his cane and turned first to Pennybet.

"I find, Mr. Pennybet, that, when you were breaking bounds, youshould have been with your company—your company, sir—atshooting practice. It's desertion, sir—and punishable by death.But I shan't shoot you. You're not worth it—not worth it. Ishan't even cane you, sir. You're too old—too old."

Penny looked at him, as much as to say he thought his point of viewwas very sensible.

"But ee, bless me, my man, take off that complacent expression, or Ifeel I may certainly smack your face."

Poor Penny, for once in a way, was rather at a loss, which was allSalome desired, so he turned to me.

"Ray—I think that was your detestable name—I shall now cane you.Get over, my man—get over."

When the ceremony was completed, Salome talked to us so nicely,although periodically asking us to bless him, that I told myself Iwould never break bounds again; thereby making one of those goodresolutions which pave, we are told, another Beaten Track.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FREEDHAM REVELATIONS

§1

The next half-holiday I was walking towards the tuck-shop andgloomily deciding that Doe's wilful estrangement from me was fastbeing frozen into tacit enmity, when I felt an arm tucked mostaffectionately into mine. It was done so quietly and quickly that Inearly leapt a yard at the shock. The arm belonged to Doe.

"Ray, you old ass," he began.

Doe, now sixteen, was not so very different from the small fawningcreature of three years before. Although the perfect curve of thecheek-line had given place to a perceptible depression beneath thecheek-bone; although the usual marks of a boy's adolescence—theslight pallor, the quick blush of diffidence, the slimness oflimb—were all very noticeable in Doe, there was yet much of theoriginal Baby about his appearance. It could be marked in his soft,indeterminate mouth, whose flower-like lips seemed always parted; inhis inquiring eyes and unkempt hair; and, at the present moment, inan artless excitement that I had not seen for many a day.

I tried to drag my arm away, but he held it too tight, and proceededto make the remarkable statement:

"You old ass! Surely you've been sulking long enough."

"Well, I like that," replied I, with an empty laugh. "You drop me,sulk like a pig, and then say it's the other way round—"

"Rot!" he interrupted. "Didn't you deliberately cut me out withRadley?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said, although the hint that I wasRadley's favourite always gave me a flush of pleasure.

"And haven't you been hanging on to Penny, just to make mejealous?"

"Never entered my head," I replied promptly, and with truth. "Ileave that sort of thing to schoolgirls like you. But it evidentlydid make you jealous."

"Yes, it did," he admitted with an engaging smile. This softenedme; and my affection for him began at once to throb into activity.

"Yes, it did; and now that you've said you're sorry, I feelfrightfully lively. Let's go and smash a window or something."

His spirits were infectious, and he dragged me off to the studywhich his intellectual eminence had recently secured for him. Whenwe arrived there, he tossed me a bag of sweets, which had clearlybeen bought as a means to sugar the reconciliation, and, droppinginto his armchair, stretched his legs in front of him, and said:

"Let's talk as we used to."

I was relieved from the necessity of finding some opening remark bythe bursting into the room of "Molés" White.

If you look up the Latin word "Molés" in the dictionary, you willfind that it means "a huge, shapeless mass"; and all of us had beenvery quick to see that this was an excellent description of ourjunior house-prefect, White. Moles White was as enormous and ugly inhis dimensions as he was genial and simple in face. You saw at aglance that he possessed all the traditional kindliness andgenerosity of the giant. As he crashed into Doe's study, he wasswinging some books on the end of a strap.

"Found you, Doe," said he. "Look here, Bramhall's got to make thebest house-team it can, which means you must give up slacking atcricket. You'll play at the nets this evening."

"Heavens! Ray," Doe murmured in mock dismay, as he stared out ofeyes that sparkled with impudence at White's huge frame, "what onearth is this coming in?"

White smiled meaningly.

"Don't be cheeky now, Doe," he suggested. "No lip, please."

Doe's reply was a laugh, and the question addressed to me:

"I say, Ray, do you think it's an Iguanodon?"

"Well," said White, striding forward and beginning to swing hisbooks ominously, "if you're asking for trouble, you shall have it."

Doe ducked down and raised his right hand to protect his head.

"I never said it, White," he affirmed, giggling. "Really, I didn't.You thought I did. I never called you an Iguanodon—I've too muchrespect for you."

"Yes, you did. Take your hand away. I'm determined to swing thesebooks on to your head."

"Ray," shouted Doe between his giggles, "take him away. Don't bully,Moles! You great beast! Ray, he's bullying me."

White paused. Bullying, even in fun, was a horrible idea. The booksfell limply to his side.

"Be sensible, if you can, Doe. You've got to play this evening."

The change in White's voice prompted Doe to raise his head and lookup from under his arm at his attacker.

"Great Scott, Ray," he blurted out. "If it's not an Iguanodon, it'sa prehistoric animal of some sort."

"My hat!" exclaimed White. "You young devil! Put that hand downwhile I smite you over the head with these books." And he made asthough to execute his threat. Doe accordingly retired still furtherdown into his chair, and placed his elbow to ward off the swingingbooks.

"I didn't say it, White, you liar! Shut up, will you? You might hurtme seriously. Go away. I hate you! Oh, hang it!"—(this was when thebooks struck him on the elbow),—"it hurts, Moles. Leave off, whileI rub my elbow."

The gentle giant responded to this reasonable request; the booksdropped; and Doe, looking reproachfully at his executioner, setabout massaging his elbow.

"Ray," he said, when the operation was complete, "is there any knownmeans of removing this nightmare?"

Immediately his uplifted arm was seized in White's huge paw. Doe'seyes were sparkling, his cheeks red, and his hair tumbled. His rightarm being now held, he laughed more loudly and nervously and raisedhis left.

"By Jove, White," he cried, "if you rouse my ire, I'll get up andlick you. Let go of my hand—it's not yours. Oh, shut up, you greatswine! Hang it, Ray"—(this with a shriek, half of laughter, half ofanticipation)—"he's got my left hand as well—O, White, I'm sorry."

White held both his victim's wrists in one hand. Too honourable totake advantage of this, he swung his books at a distance and said:

"You've got to play at the nets, do you hear?"

My friend simulated anger. Struggling to get free, he ejacul*ted:

"I'll not be ordered about by an Iguanodon. I'm not that sort ofman. O, White, I said I was—he, he, ha!—sorry. I didn't mean to berude. I didn't see it in that light—"

"Whack" came the books gently on his back.

"Oh, please, Moles White, please stop. There's a dear old Iguanodon.Ow—Ow—Ow!"

By this time Doe was much out of breath, and his sentences wereshort and broken: "It doesn't hurt. It's lovely! Ray, don't standthere grinning like this chimpanzee, White."

Suddenly at an upward swing the slender strap broke, and the bookscrashed through the window.

"Damn!" said White.

Doe, flushed and dishevelled, picked himself out of his chair.

"That's what comes of bullying, Moles White. I'll pay for it. It wasmy beastly fault!"

"No, you won't," said White.

"Don't presume to contradict me, Moles White, or I'll lick you! Ihave stated that I'll pay for it."

"No," White decided. "We'll split the difference and go shags."

I felt the old fellow was not displeased at this compromise, for hispurse had its limitations. He withdrew from the scene and left us toour confidential chat.

When he had gone, there set in a reaction from the excitedliveliness of his visit. Doe looked sadly through the broken paneand said:

"Isn't Moles a corking old thing? The sort of chap who's naturallygood, and couldn't be anything else if he tried."

Something wistful in the words caused me to see a vision of thegravel-path sweeping to the doorway of the baths.

"I say, Doe," I began, "have you ever felt that you'd like tobe—something different from the ordinary run?"

Doe swung round on me.

"Have I ever? Why, you know, Rupert, that I'm the most ambitiousperson in the world. And, by Jove! I believe I might have donesomething great—"

"Might have done!" interrupted I, surprised that he should havedecided at sixteen that his life was earmarked for a failure."You'll probably live quite ten years more, so there's still time."

Doe turned again and sent his gaze through the broken window,replying in a little while:

"Oh, I've lived long enough to know that I'm the sort that'sdestined to make a mess of his life. I—oh, hang it, you wouldn'tunderstand..."

Evidently in Doe, as in me, his manhood had come down the corridorof the future and met his childhood face to face. One minute beforethis he was an irresponsible baby "cheeking" Moles White; now he wasthe germinal man, borne down with the weight of life. He paused forme to plead my understanding, and invite his confidence. But anawkwardness held me dumb, and he was obliged to continue:

"I wish you could understand, because—Do you know, Rupert, why Imade it up with you this afternoon?" He came away from the windowand sat in a chair opposite me. "It was because I was glowing with anew resolution. It was the rippingest feeling in the world. I—I hadjust decided to cut with Freedham."

Up to this point I had been looking into his face, but now I turnedaway. Instinctively I felt that, if he were going to, speak of histransactions with Freedham, he would be abashed by my gaze. Herested his elbows on his knees, and began to tie knot after knot ina piece of string.

"Freedham's an extraordinary creature," he proceeded. "He first gothold of me when I was at the Nursery. He would get me in a darkcorner, and alternately pet and bully me. I remember his onceholding me in a frightful grip and saying: 'You're so—' (I'm onlytelling you what he said, Rupert)—'You're so pretty that I'd loveto see you cry.' He's that type, you know."

For a while Doe, whose cheeks and neck were crimson, knotted hisstring in silence.

"Then he used to give me money to encourage me to like him, and dash*t, Ray! I do like him. He's got such weird, majestic ideas thatare different from anyone else's,—and he attracts me. His greattheory is that Life is Sensation, and there must be no sensation—alaw, or no law—which he has not experienced. I believed him to beright (as I do still, in part) and we—we tried everything together.We—we got drunk on a beastly occasion in his room. We didn't likeit, but we pushed on, so as to find out what the sensation was. Andthen—oh! I wish I'd never started telling you all this—"

He tied a knot with such viciousness that few would have had thepatience to untie it.

"Go on, old chap," I said encouragingly. I was proud of playing thesympathetic confidant; but, less natural than that, a certainabnormality in the conversation had stimulated me; I was excited tohear more.

"Well, he told me that years before he had wanted to see what takingdrugs was like, and he had been taking them ever since. He was madkeen on the subject and had read De Quincey and those people frombeginning to end. I've tried them with him.... There are not manythings we haven't done together."

Doe tossed the string away.

"I know I might have done well in cricket, but Freedham used to saythat excelling in games was good enough for Kipling's 'flannelledfools' and 'muddied oafs.' We thought we were superior, chosenpeople, who would excel in mysticism and intellectualism."

As he said it, Doe looked up and smiled at me, while I sat, amazedto discover how far he, with his finer mind, had outstripped me inthe realms of thought. I had no idea what mysticism was.

"And I still think," he pursued, "that Freedham's got hold of theTruth, only perverted; just as he himself is a perversion. Life iswhat feeling you get out of it; and the highest types of feelingare mystical and intellectual. I only knew yesterday what aperversion he really was. I saw something that I'd never seenbefore—he had a sort of paroxysm—like a bad rigor; something todo with the drug-habit, I s'pose—"

A powerful desire came over me to say: "I knew all about his fitsyears ago," but it melted before the memory of a far-away promise.At this point, too, I became perfectly sure that, although Doe'ssudden self-revelation was an intense and genuine outburst, yet hewas sufficiently his lovable self to feel pride in his easy use oftechnical terms like paroxysm and rigor.

"It frightened me," continued he. "It's only cowardice that's mademe cut with him. I know my motives are all rotten, but no matter; Iwas gloriously happy half-an-hour ago, when I had made theresolution. And now I'm melancholy. That's why I'm talking aboutbeing a great man. You must be melancholy to feel great."

As he said the words, Doe leapt to his feet and unconsciously struckhis breast with a fine action.

"And I sometimes know I could be great. I feel it surging in me.But I shall only dream it all. I haven't the cold, calculating powerof Penny, for instance. He's the only one of us who'll set theThames on fire. At present, Rupert, I've but one goal; and that isto win the Horace Prize before I leave. If I can do that, I'llbelieve again in my power to make something of my life."

§2

I fear I'm a very ignoble character, for this conversation, insteadof filling me with pain at Doe's deviations, only gave me a selfishelation in the thought that I had utterly routed my shadowy rival,Freedham, and won back my brilliant twin, who could talk thusfamiliarly about mysticism. And now there only remained the veryconcrete Fillet to be driven in disorder from the field.

CHAPTER IX

WATERLOO OPENS

§1

And here begins the record of my Waterloo with Fillet.

One June morning of the following year all we Bramhallites wereassembled in the Preparation Room for our weekly issue of "Bank" orpocket-money; we were awaiting the arrival of Fillet, ourhouse-master, with his jingling cash-box. Soon he would enter and,having elaborately enthroned himself at his desk, proceed to askeach of us how much "Bank" he required, and to deliberate, when thesum was proposed, whether the boy's account would stand so large adraft. The boy would argue with glowing force that it would standthat and more; and Fillet would put the opposing case withirritating contumacy.

This morning he was late; the corridors nowhere echoed the rattle ofhis cash-box. So it occurred to me to entertain the crowd with alittle imitation of Fillet. Seating myself at his desk, I frowned ata nervous junior, and addressed him thus:

"N-now, my boy, how much b-b-bank do you want? Shilling? B-b-bankwon't stand it. T-take sixpence. Sixpence not enough? Take ninepenceand run away."

The Bramhallites enjoyed my impersonation.

"N-now, Moles—White, I mean—how much b-b-bank do you want? Twoshillings? B-bank won't stand it. Take three halfpence—take it,Moles, and toddle away."

There were roars of laughter, and a grin from White like the smileof a brontosaurus.

"N-now, Doe, you don't want any this week—you've come to pay insome, I suppose. You—oh, damn!"

This whispered oath, accompanied by a dismayed stare at the door,turned the heads of all in that direction. Fillet, in his carpetslippers, had come round the corner and was an interested critic ofmy little imitation.

Very red, I vacated the seat to its owner and stepped down among theboys. Without a word he took it in my stead, placed his cash-box onthe desk, and opened his book.

"N-now, White, how much b-b-bank do you want?"

Having heard this before, several boys tittered. Out of nervousnessI tittered too, and cursed myself as I did so. Fillet looked at meas though he would have liked to repeat the flogging he had given memany years before. But the blushing boy in front of him was nowseventeen, and taller than he.

When the last account had been duly debited, the Bramhallitesdispersed to their classes. Throughout that day the incident was apainful recollection for me. I felt I could beat Fillet with cleanerweapons than an exploiting of his affliction: and the more I thoughtof it, the more I decided that I must go and apologise to him. Thesentence to be used crystallised in my mind: "Please, sir, I came tosay I was sorry I was imitating you this morning."

With this little offering I walked in the fall of the eveningupstairs to his study. My knock eliciting a "C-come in," I enteredand began:

"Please, sir, I came to say—" I got no further, for, with a sourlook, he interrupted testily:

"Run away, b-boy, run away."

This rejection of my apology I had never contemplated, and it waswith a sinking heart that I persisted:

"Please, sir, I wanted to—"

"Run away, boy. I'm accustomed to dealing with gentlemen."

At once my attitude of submission was changed at Fillet's clumsytouch into one of hot defiance.

"Indeed, sir," I retorted. "I'm not always so fortunate." I wentquickly out and managed to slam the door. Blood up, I muttered:

"Brute! Beast! Swine! Devil!"

§2

Moles White, who was now the house-captain, was occupied twoafternoons later in discussing with the bloods of Bramhall thecomposition of the House Swimming Four for the Inter-house relayraces.

"Erasmus House have a splendid Four," he said. "We've only got threeso far: there's myself and Cully and Johnson."

"And a precious rotten three too," said Doe.

"Well," grumbled White, "there's nobody else in the House who canswim a stroke; a good many think they can."

"Not so sure," whispered Doe, obscurely. "Come along with me. No,Moles alone." And he dragged White towards the baths.

Within that beloved building I was trying to see how many lengths Icould swim. It was rather late, and I had the water to myself. Iwas doing my sixth length when I saw entering the baths theungainly carcass of White with the graceful form of Doe hangingaffectionately on his arm. The latter was explaining that no oneknew how well I could swim, as I had once nearly fainted whenextending myself to the utmost and had gone easy ever since. "ButRupert can really swim at ninety miles an hour," he concluded.

So White called: "Come here, Ray."

"When you say 'please,'" shouted I, swimming about.

Doe thereupon took the matter in hand and addressed me:

"Now, Ray, I want you to swim your best. Here's a little kiddyfriend of mine I've brought to see you. Mr. Ray, this is MasterMoles."

White ignored his companion's playfulness and asked me:

"Can you swim sixty yards?"

I hurled about five pints of water at him to show that I detectedthe insult.

"You old Moles!" said Doe. "Serves you right. Why, he's justfinished swimming about seventy thousand yards."

"Well, sheer off and let's see you do it," ordered White.

I accordingly swam my fastest to the deep end and back.

"My word!" gasped White. "I didn't know you could swim like that."

Doe laughed in his face.

"You loon! He could swim before you were born."

Moles seized Doe by the throat and pretended to push him into thewater, but characteristically saved him from falling by placing anarm round his waist.

"Apologise," he hissed, "or I'll drop you."

"Moles," replied Doe reproachfully. "At once let me go; or I'll pushyou in." I rendered my friend immediate assistance by fillingWhite's shoes with water.

"Shut up that!" said he, quickly releasing Doe, who retired from thebaths shouting: "Moles, you ugly old elephant, Ray could give youeighty yards in a hundred, and beat you."

This last impertinence suggested an idea to White. He arranged thatCully, Johnson, he, and I should have a private race, "in camera,"as he put. The event came off the following day, and I won it withsome yards to spare. My three defeated opponents were generous intheir praise.

"Golly!" said Johnson. "I thought we'd be last for the Swimming Cup.But snakes alive! we'll get in the semi-final."

"Why, man," declared Cully. "I see us in the final with Erasmus."

"Final be damned!" said White. "Train like navvies and we'll liftthe Cup!"

§3

Never did human boy have three more sporting associates in aswimming four than I had in White, Cully, and Johnson. Because I wasa year younger than they it was their pleasure to call me the "Babyof the Team," and to take a pride in my successes. They would, inorder to pace me, take half-a-length's start in a two-lengths'practice race, and make me strain every nerve to beat them. Or theywould time me with their watches over the sixty yards, and, allarriving at different conclusions as to my figures, agree only inthe fact that I was establishing records. Once, when according to astop-watch I really did set up a record, Cully, forgetting hisdignity as a prefect in his enthusiasm as a Bramhallite, cried"Alleluia! alleluia!" and hurled Johnson's hat into the air, so thatit fell into the water.

The members of Erasmus' Four were at first incredulous.

"Heard of Bramhall's find?" said they. "They've discovered a youngtorpedo in Ray. He's quite good and they'll probably get into thefinal. But we needn't be afraid. They've a weak string in Johnson,while we haven't a weakness anywhere. However, we'll take no risks."And so they started a savagely severe system of training.

Meantime White constituted himself my medical adviser, and some suchdialogue as this would take place every morning:

"Now, Ray, got any pain under the heart?"

"No."

"Do you feel anything like a stomach-ache?"

"Only when I see your face."

"Look here, I'd knock your face through your head, if I didn't wantyour services so badly. Are you at all stiff?"

"Yes, bored stiff with your conversation."

It was true that there had been no trace of the faintness which hadattacked me a year before. Had there been, I should have kept quietabout it, for, in that time of excitement, I would willingly haveshortened my life by ten years, if I could have made certain ofsecuring the Cup for Bramhall. Only one thing marred this period ofmy great ascendency; Radley, Bramhall's junior house-master, nevergave me a word of praise or flattery.

That wound to my self-love festered stingingly. I persisted inletting my thoughts dwell on it. I would frame sentences with whichRadley would express his surprise at my transcendent powers, suchas: "Ray, you're a find for the house"; "I'm glad Bramhall possessesyou, and no other house"; "I don't think I've ever seen a fasterboy-swimmer"; "You're the best swimmer in the school by a long way."I would turn any conversation with him on to the subject of therace, and suffer a few seconds' acute suspense, while I waited forhis compliment. I would depreciate my own swimming to him, feelingin my despair that a murmured contradiction would suffice: but thismethod I gave up, owing to the horror I experienced lest he shouldagree.

And, when he mercilessly refused to gratify me, I would wanderaway and review all the occasions on which he had seen me swim,recalling how I then acquitted myself; or I would laboriouslyenumerate all the people who must have told him in high terms ofmy performances. A growing annoyance with him pricked me into adefiant determination, so that I reiterated to myself: "I'll doit. I'll win it. I swear I will!"

Bramhall passed easily into the final. Erasmus, too, romped home intheir first and second rounds. So on the eve of the great race itwas known throughout Bramhall that the house must be prepared tomeasure itself against Erasmus' famous four.

Betting showed Erasmus as firm favourites, the school criticslooking askance at Johnson, our weakest man. Only the Bramhalliteslaid nervous half-crowns on the house, and hoped a mighty hope. Thatexcellent fellow, White, displayed his unfortunate features glowingwith an expression that was almost beautiful.

As the day of the race led me, steadily and without pity, to thetime of ordeal, I sickened so from nerves that I could scarcelyswallow food; and what I did swallow I couldn't taste. I was gladwhen at five o'clock something definite could be done like going tothe baths, selecting a cabin, and beginning to undress. Four minuteswere scarcely sufficient for me to undo my braces, such was thetrembling of my hand. I longed for the moments to pass, so that thetime to dive in could come; every delay ruffled me; I wished thewhole thing were over. It didn't lessen my suffering to watch thegallery filling with excited boys, and to see the crowd on theground-floor make way for Salome himself, followed by Fillet andRadley as representatives of Bramhall, and Upton as house-master ofErasmus. Perspiration beaded my forehead. My heart fluttered, and Ibegan to fear some failure in that quarter. At one moment, when Iwas in extremis, I would willingly have exchanged positions withthe humblest of the onlookers: at another I caught a faint gleam ofhope in the thought that the end of the world might yet come beforeI was asked to do anything publicly. And I conceived of happier boyswho had died young.

The baths were prepared for the event. Across the water, thirty feetfrom the diving-station, a large beam was fixed, which thecompetitors must reach and touch, before turning round and swimmingback to the starting point. More boys were allowed to crowd into thegallery and the cabins. Very conspicuous was the expansive whitewaistcoat of old Dr. Chapman, who was busy backing Erasmus whentalking to the boys of Erasmus, and Bramhall when questioned byBramhallites. Fillet, as master of Bramhall; Upton, as master ofErasmus; and Jerry Brisket, as a neutral, were appointed judges.

White gathered the Bramhall four into his cabin and arranged withsanguine comments that we should swim in this order:

1. Himself—to give us a good start.

2. Johnson—to lose as little as possible of the fine leadestablished.

3. Ray—to make the position absolutely certain.

4. Cully—to maintain the twenty-yards' lead secured by Ray.

"See, Ray," he said to me, after he had dismissed the others, "youswim third—last but one."

"Ye—es," I stuttered.

"Nervous?" he inquired softly.

I smiled and made a grimace. "Beastly."

He gripped my hand in his powerful fist and whispered: "Rot! you arecertain to do everything for us. My heart is set on winning this andstaggering the school."

I smiled again. "You're a ripping chap, and I'm sorry if I've evercheeked you."

Sudden cheering told us that the great Erasmus four had emerged fromtheir cabins. They were as fine a little company of Saxon boys asever school could show; comely, tall, and fair-skinned. On the leftside of the diving-boards they took up their pre-arranged positions:Atwood, first; Southwell Primus, behind him; Lancelot, third (andtherefore my opponent); and then Southwell Secundus. And all fourhad tied on their heads the black and white polo-caps of the school.Upton looked with satisfaction upon his house's representatives;while Dr. Chapman, standing near, exclaimed: "Fine young shoots ofyours, Uppy. I tell you, this is England's best generation. Dammit,there are three things old England has learnt to make: ships, andpoetry, and boys."

Now, amid less resounding but still enthusiastic applause, theBramhall four assumed positions on the right. White stood on thediving-mat; behind him, Johnson, frowning; next myself; and lastlyCully. We were of very varying heights, from White, whose hugeproportions exaggerated the difference, to little thick-set Cully,who was the shortest of all. And only these two wore the polo-cap.So both fours stood before the multitude, inviting comparison:Erasmus, a team; Bramhall, a scratch lot.

Behind me Cully observed the contrast, and, striving with courage tobelie his agitation, murmured: "Look at Erasmus. Did you ever seesuch a measly lot? If we can't beat that crew, Ray, my boy, we mustbe duffers," to emphasise which remark he tickled me under botharmpits, so that, nearly jumping out of my skin, I fell forward onto Johnson, who fell forward on to White, who, having nobody to fallforward on to, fell prematurely into the water. This extra item wasloudly "encored," and White scrambled back to his place and bowedhis acknowledgments.

Salome, as starter, thereupon addressed the competitors.

"Ee, bless me, my men, I shall say 'Are you ready? Go!'"

His words were like a bell for silence. Upton and Fillet eyed theswimmers narrowly.

"Are you ready? Go!"

And then a calamity supervened. While Atwood dived with the grace ofa swallow, White, well—White missed his dive; he leapt into theair, his great arms and legs appeared to hang limply down, and hisbody struck the water with a splash that set the whole surface in aturmoil. "Moles has gone a belly-flopper," shouted the crowd, as itwept with laughter. "Good old Moles, 'a huge, shapeless mass!'" Iwas too nervous to laugh, and wished that I had trousers on, for mylimbs were trembling so noticeably that I felt everybody must bestudying them. Johnson swore. Cully said: "Bang goes the Cup!" ButWhite rose and started furiously to recover the lost ground,thrashing the water with his limbs. Bravely done! How the buildingcheered, as his long arms swung distances behind them! But hefailed. Atwood, swimming with coolness, kept and increased theadvantage; and, accompanied by a din from his housemates and anall-embracing smile from Upton, touched the rope beneath thediving-mat full two yards in front. Over his head dived SouthwellPrimus, while Johnson, in an agony, yelled to White to hurry hisshapeless stumps. Moles, with a last tremendous stretch, touched therope, and Johnson plunged splendidly to his work. I took up myposition on the mat and helped White to flounder out.

"Ray," were his first words, "it's up to you now. I'm awfully sorryI muddled it, but you'll make it good. I know you will—you must.I shall weep if we go down."

"I'll try," I said.

Meanwhile Johnson, as is often the case with the weakest man,outstripped the most hazardous faith. To the joy of Bramhall hematched Southwell Primus with a yard for his yard. But, even so, hispace couldn't eat up the lost ground; and the Erasmus man touchedhome still two yards in front of the Bramhallite. In flew Lancelot,my opponent; and, with the coming of Johnson, it would be my turn.The Bramhallites, in a burst of new hope, shouted sarcastically: "Goit, Lancelot. Ray's coming. He's just coming." I got the spring inmy toes, watched carefully to see Johnson touch the rope beneath me,and then, to the greatest shout of our supporters, dived into thebeloved element.

They told me (but probably it was in their enthusiasm) that it wasthe best and longest racing-dive I had ever done; that, remainingalmost parallel to the surface, I just pierced the water as a knifepierces cheese. All I know is that at the grasp of the cool waterevery symptom of nerves left me: and, with my face beneath thesurface, and the water rushing past my ears, half shutting out afrenzied uproar, I raced confidently for the beam. The position ofLancelot I cared not to know. My one aim was to cover the sixtyyards in record time; and, so doing, to pass him. On I shot, feelingthat my arms were devouring the course; and, some five strokessooner than I expected, became conscious that I was near the beam.In an overarm reach I scraped it with my finger-tips. Swinginground, I swam madly back. Extending myself to the utmost, I felt asif every stroke was swifter than its predecessor. Now my breath grewshorter and my limbs began to stiffen; but all this proved a sourceof speed, for, in a spirit of defiance of nature, I whipped armsand legs into even faster movement; it was my brain against my body.Then there came into view the rope, which I touched with a reach.Making no attempt to grasp it, for I seemed to be travelling toorapidly, I saw the atmosphere darken with the shadow of Cullypassing over my head, and crashed head-first into the end of thebaths. Not stunned, for the cold water refreshed me, I turnedimmediately to see if I had really got home before Lancelot. He wasstill in the water, three yards from the rope.

§4

That moment, while many hands helped me out of the water; while thebuilding echoed with cheers and whistles; while White, too happy tospeak, beamed upon the world; while fists hammered me on the back;while Cully, splendidly swimming, made the victory sure; Iexperienced such a happiness as would not be outweighed by years ofsubsequent misery. Though my limbs were so stiff that it was pain tomove them, they glowed with diffused happiness; though my heart wasfluttering at an alarming pace, it beat also with the electricpulsations of joy: though my breath was too disturbed for speech,yet my mind framed the words: "I've done it, I've done it"; thoughmy head ached with the blow it had received, it was also burstingwith a delight too great to hold. I had never done anything for thehouse before, and now I had won for its shelf the Swimming Cup.

They helped me to my cabin, and, as I sat there, I composed the taleof success that I would send to my mother. Then I stood up to dress,and, in my excitement, put on my shirt before my vest. There was aconfusion of cheers within and without the building; and Upton,Fillet, and Jerry Brisket, the judges, were to be seen in animateddebate, while many others stood round and listened. Dazed, faint,and unconscious of the passage of momentous events, I took no noticeof them, but drank deeply of victory. It exhilarated me toreconstruct the whole story, beginning with my early stage-frightand ending with the triumphant climax, when I crashed into the endof the baths.

I was indulging the glorious retrospect when there broke upon myreverie a sullen youth who said:

"Well, Ray, we haven't won it after all."

There was a hitch in my understanding, and I asked:

"What d'you mean?"

"You were disqualified."

"I!" It was almost a hair-whitening shock. "I! What? Why? What for?"

"They say you dived before Johnson touched the rope. Nobody believesyou did."

So then; I had lost the cup for Bramhall. The lie! Too old to ventsuffering in tears, I showed it in a panting chest, a trembling lip,and a dry, wide-eyed stare at my informant. Backed by a disorderoutside, he repeated: "Nobody believes you did."

All happiness died out of my ken. Conscious only of aching limbs, afluttering heart, uneven breath, and a bursting head, I cried:

"I didn't. I didn't. Who said so?"

"Fillet—Carpet Slippers."

"The liar! The liar!" I muttered; and, with a sudden attack ofsomething like cramp down my left side, I fell into a sittingposition, and thence into a huddled and fainting heap upon thefloor.

CHAPTER X

WATERLOO CONTINUES: THE CHARGE AT THE END OF THE DAY

§1

While I was recovering there fell the first thunderdrops of mutiny.A youth at the back of the gallery, on intercepting the flyingmessage that Fillet had demanded my disqualification and JerryBrisket had ended by supporting him, roared out a threatening"No!" Maybe, had he not done so, there would never have been thegreat Bramhall riot. But many other boys, catching the contagion ofhis defiance, cried out "No!" The crowd, recently so excited, waseasily flushed by the new turn of events, and shouted in unison"No!" Isolated voices called out "Cheat!" "Liar!" Dr. Chapman, astactless as he was kindly, declared to those about him that Fillet'sjudgment was at fault, and thus helped to increase the uproar. Thedisaffection spread to the Erasmus men, who said openly: "We don'twant the beastly cup. Bramhall won it fair and square."

And then came the report that I, on receiving the news, had fainted.This, by provoking deeper sympathy with the hero and greaterexecration of the villain, acted like paraffin oil on the flames.Before the masters realised that anything more than disappointmentwas abroad, rebellion looked them in the face.

Salome saw it and knew that, if his short but brilliant record asheadmaster was not to be abruptly destroyed, he must rise to promptand statesmanlike action. His first step was to summon all theprefects in the building and say:

"Ee, bless me, my men, clear the baths."

The prefects quickly emptied the building of all boys; but outsidethe door they could do no more than link arms like the City Policeand keep back a turbulent mob. Then Salome, accompanied by Fillet,Upton, and Radley, passed with dignity through his pupils. He wasreceived in an ominous silence.

Now, behind this revolt there was a hidden hand; and it was the handof Pennybet. To effect a coup d'état and to control and move blindforces were, we know, the particular hobbies of Pennybet. Here thisevening he found blind disorder and rebellion, which, if they werenot to die out feebly and expose the rebels to punishment, must beguided and controlled. So he flattered himself he would take overthe reins of mutiny, and hold them in such a clandestine manner thatnone should recognise whose was the masterhand. He would crossswords with Salome. As he said to me the following day: "I ranthat riot, Rupert, and I never enjoyed anything so much in my life."

His method outside the baths was to keep himself in the backgroundand to whisper to boys, at various points on the circumference ofthe vast and gathering mob, battle orders, which he knew would bequickly circulated. They were really his own composition, but, likea good general keeping open his means of retreat, he attributed themto some visionary people, who, in the event of failure, could bearthe brunt of the insurrection.

"Some of the chaps are talking about a real organised revolt. Howcorking!"

"The idea seems to be that it's no good doing anything, unless it'sdone on a large scale. I shall stick by the others and see what theydo."

"You're to pass the word, they say, to keep massed. I suppose theirgame is that small bodies can be dispersed, but we can't be touchedif we're all caked together. You'd better pass that on and explainit."

"There are to be no dam black-legs. I've just heard that any whoslink off will be mobbed."

"What are we waiting for? Can't say. Depends who's managing thisshindy. You can be sure somebody's organising it, and we'll do whatthe others do. Toss that along."

Really, Penny didn't know what his great crowd was waiting for. Hehad not had time to formulate a plan, but had contented himself withkeeping his forces together. And, while, closely compacted, theyswayed about, unconscious that they were the plaything of one cooland remarkable boy, he hit upon the scheme of an offensive. Hedecided that it would be futile to fight here, where all theschool-prefects were concentrated; it would be better to transferthe attack to the courtyard of Bramhall House, where only theBramhall prefects would have to be reckoned with. To stay here wasto attempt a frontal attack. No, he would retreat as a feint, andoutflank the school-prefects by a surprise movement in the directionof Bramhall.

"Have you heard?" he said. "We're all to disperse and meet again infive minutes in Bramhall courtyard. I wonder what's in the wind."

Penny knew that not a single boy would fail to arrive at theadvertised station, if only to see what was in the wind; and asthe crowd disintegrated and the prefects strolled away, thinking themutiny had petered out, he murmured to himself: "A crowd's an easything for a man to handle."

§2

So it was that there was silence everywhere when, returning toconsciousness, I found myself in the empty baths with Dr. Chapmanlooking down upon me.

"One day we must thoroughly overhaul you, young man," he said."There may be a weakness at your heart. How're you feeling now?"

"Oh, all right, thanks."

"Bit disappointed, I suppose?"

"Rather!"

"Frightfully so?"

I didn't answer. His words filled my throat with a lump.

"Would blub, if you could, but can't, eh?"

The question nearly brought the tears welling into my eyes. Hewatched them swell, and said:

"As a doctor, I should tell you to try and blub, but, as an oldpublic-schoolboy, I should say 'Try not to.' Do which you like, oldman. Both are right. I'll not stay to see."

And, without looking round, he withdrew from the building.

About ten minutes later I found myself in the deserted playingfields. Knowing nothing of any breaches of the peace, I crossed theroad and passed through the gateway into the courtyard of BramhallHouse. Immediately a great roar of cheers went up, I was seized byexcited hands, raised on to the shoulders of several boys, andcarried through a shouting multitude to the boys' entrance, where Iwas deposited on the steps.

Probably not a soul knew that Salome was looking down from thewindow of Fillet's study and watching the effect of my arrival. Assoon as the theatre of hostilities had changed from the baths toBramhall House, he, too, had crossed the road and entered unobservedby Fillet's private doorway. He knew well enough that of all theoutposts in his schools' system of discipline Bramhall was theweakest held. The house was under the sway of an ineffective masterwith a stinging tongue; and trouble would have stirred long ago hadit not been for the heavy hand of the junior house-master, Radley,whom Salome's predecessor had placed there to strengthen theposition. And insubordination had been not uncommon since theaccession of the too genial White to the captaincy.

In justice to White I must say that, if he had been present thisevening, he would have done his best to quell the disturbance. Butthe decision of the judges had no sooner reached him than he haddisappeared from the sight of men. As a matter of fact his greatheart was breaking in the privacy of the science buildings. The onlyother house-prefects were, strangely enough, the redoubtable Cullyand Johnson, who had sought consolation by retiring together to acafé in the town. So, when Salome arrived at Fillet's study, therewere no prefects available to disband the rebels. What was he to do?It would be quite inexpedient for a master to venture himself intothe field of fire. If he suffered indignity, severe punishment wouldbe necessary, and that might provoke further defiance. Then again,an alien prefect from another house would have little hope ofsuccess on Bramhall territory. Truly Salome was out in a storm.

Hardly had they placed me on the steps, very surprised andgratified, before Pennybet roared out:

"Was it true that you cheated, as Fillet tried to make out?"

"No!" I cried.

If I had been a nobler youth, I should have assumed that Filletacted conscientiously from a mistake. But I believed, and wanted tobelieve, that his had been a piece of deliberate revenge; that,recalling my imitation of his affliction, he had determined to robme of my triumph. So, being a vindictive young animal, I declared tothe mob what I conceived to be the truth. And all of them agreed,while many began to hoot.

"Now, I've been sent by some boys at the back," said Penny, "to tellyou that what you've got to do is to go up to Fillet's room andtender him a mock-apology for losing the Cup for his house. We're tocheer ironically and hoot down here, and make a hell of a noise.Then if he says 'Are those young devils cheering you or hooting me?'you're to say 'They're doing both, sir.' It's a good scheme, whoeverinvented it, because he can't touch you for civilly apologising andthen for telling the truth when you are asked a question."

The idea fired me. Aye, it would be good to attack in a last chargeand beat old Fillet, while I had all his house in fighting arraybehind me. It would be good that he, who had rejected my seriousapology, should be obliged to hear my contemptuous one, backed bythe tumult and hooting of half the school. Never had I thought thatmy decisive victory, for which I had waited years, would assumethese splendid proportions.

Into the house I went, flushed and determined, and quite unawarethat by invading Fillet's study I should walk into the arms of thehead master himself. Up the stairs I rushed, but, as I set foot uponthe first landing, Radley, coming out of his room, stood in the wayof my further ascent.

"Come in here a minute," he said.

"Sir, I can't—"

He seized me by the right wrist and swung me almost brutally intohis room. I was a muscular stripling, and he meant me to feel hisstrength. Suddenly disconcerted, I heard the door slam, and foundthat Radley was face to face with me. My breast went up and downwith uncontrollable temper, while my wrist, all red and white withthe marks of powerful fingers, felt as if it were broken.

"Where were you going?" he demanded, his hard mouth set.

"To Mr. Fillet's study," I snapped, purposely omitting the "sir."

"What for?"

"To apologise for losing the Swimming Cup."

"In a spirit of sincerity or one of scoffing?"

It was with no desire for veracity, but as a challenge to fight,that I replied: "One of scoffing."

"Good." Radley's grey eyes unveiled some of their gentleness, "youcan tell the truth still. Now, Ray, the shock of your disappointmenthas deprived you of reason, or you, of all people, would see thatthis tomfoolery outside is unsportsmanlike in the extreme."

"But, sir," I ventured, surprised and rather pleased to hear myselfmannerly again, "every boy declares I didn't dive too soon."

"But unfortunately, Ray," replied Radley, also pleased, "every boywas not appointed a judge, and your housemaster was. Now, do youthink that the judge's decision can be overruled by a mere countingof the heads that disagree with him? I put it to you; undo thedamage you've done in associating yourself with this exhibitionoutside—at this moment you wield more influence than any other boyin the school—go out and establish order."

"Sir, I can't, sir. I'm their sort of deputy."

"Ray, there's a wave of rebellion outside, and you're nothing moreimportant than the foam on the crest of the wave. Look here, you'rea magnificent swimmer, the best in the school by a long way"—thuscame the word of praise for which I had hungered so long—"well, agood swimmer will go out and breast the wave."

As he said it, he laid his hand gently upon my shoulder, and I felt,as I did once before, that in his peculiar sacramental touch therewas something given by him and taken by me.

"But, sir," I said, desiring to justify myself, "I couldn't helpthinking that Mr. Fillet did it on purpose to pay me out."

Radley frowned. "You mustn't say such things. But, were it so, anyfool can be resentful, while it takes a big man to sacrifice himselfand his petty quarrels for the good of great numbers. You will do itto save the school from hurt. I have always believed you big enoughfor these things."

My answer must have showed Radley how sadly I was less than hisestimate of me.

"But, sir, if I turn back now they'll say I funked."

"Exactly; then go out and face their abuse. Go out and get hurt. I'mdetermined your life shall be big, so begin now by learning to standbuffeting. Besides, Ray, does it matter to a strong swimmer if thewave beats against him?"

I answered nothing, but gazed out of the window. And Radley shotanother appeal—a less lofty one, but it flew home. Arrows piercedeeper, if they don't soar too high.

"Ray, they'll say you funked your master, if you don't go up toMr. Fillet's study; I shall say you funked the boys, if you don'tgo out to them. You must choose between their contempt and mine."

I looked down at my boots.

"Which would you rather have, their contempt or mine?"

"Theirs, sir."

Radley was quite moved when I answered him thus; and it was a littlewhile before he proceeded:

"I might have stopped your access to Mr. Fillet's study by tellingyou that the head master was waiting for you there. But I wanted youto stop from your own high motives, and not from fear. Come alongnow; we'll go together."

We ascended the stairs to the study and entered. Salome at onceraised his long figure from his seat and, pointing at my tie, said:

"Ee, bless me, my man, you're very slovenly; put your tie straight."

I blushed and did so.

Then he turned to Radley.

"Did you find him in the right disposition?"

"Yes, sir."

It would not have been I if at this "Yes, sir" of Radley's my mindhad not run up an irrelevant alley, in which I found myselfwondering that Radley, who was always called "sir," should ever haveto call anyone else "sir." Perhaps I was staring dreamily intovacancy, for Salome said:

"Bless me, I'm very glad to hear that his disposition is all right.But is the boy a fool? Why does he stand staring into vacancy like abrainless nincompoop?"

I turned redder than ever and wondered at whom to look so as toavoid vacancy, and what to do with my hands. Nervously I used theright hand to button up my coat, and then put it out of mischief inmy pocket.

"Good God, man!" cried the Head. "Take that hand out of yourpocket!"

I took it quickly out and unbuttoned one coat-button: then, for lackof something to do with the hand, did the button up again. I decidedto keep the miserable member fingering the button. To make mattersworse Salome rested his eyes like a searchlight on the hand. At lasthe looked distressingly straight at my face.

"Ray," he asked, "are you a perfect fool?"

"No, sir," I said, and grinned.

The Head turned to my housemaster for his testimony.

"Mr. Fillet, is the boy a fool?"

"One couldn't call him a fool," replied Fillet, obviouslyintending the conclusion: "One might, however, call him a knave."

The Head turned to Radley.

"Mr. Radley, is he a fool?"

"He's anything but a fool, sir; and he's still less of a knave,"said Radley, angry and caring only to repudiate Fillet's innuendo.

"Ray," Salome was again staring me out of countenance. "Do you everdo any work?"

"Yes, sir," I said brightly. It was kind of him to ask questions towhich I could honestly answer in the affirmative. I did occasionallydo some work.

"Mr. Fillet?" queried Salome, desiring the housemaster to have hissay.

"I suppose there are idler boys," announced Fillet grudgingly; andit was open to anyone to hear in his words the further meaning;"but, on the other hand, there are many more studious and moredeserving." The fact is, the little man was irritated that Radleyshould have tried to contradict him before the Head.

"Mr. Radley?" pursued Salome, as though he were bored with theevidence, but realised that everyone must be allowed his turn tospeak.

"Ray has always worked well for me," Radley promptly answered,and we all knew he meant it as a second stab for Fillet.

Salome once more fixed me with his disconcerting stare.

"Ray," he asked, "have you any glimmerings of moral courage?"

"I don't know, sir," said I, wondering where the conversation wasleading.

The Head, apparently tired out by this catechising, contentedhimself with turning his face in the direction of Fillet for hisendorsem*nt or denial.

"He's as bold as they make 'em," said Fillet; and this time thedouble meaning was as clear as before: "the boy is utterlyshameless."

The Head turned to Radley, who answered with a snap:

"Yes, he's plenty of courage; and what's better, he's easilyshamed."

"Bless me, are you any good whatever at games?" continued the wearycatechist.

"I can swim a bit, but I'm not much good at anything else."

"As he says, he swims a bit," corroborated Fillet. "But I don't knowwhat else he can do."

"He's the best swimmer in the school," snapped Radley, "and will oneday be the best bowler."

"Well, bless me, my man, have you any position or influence withyour schoolfellows?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Hm!" sneered Fillet, whose temper was gone. "He has hisconfederates."

"Yes," said Radley, "he has a very loyal following."

I think it pleased the drowsy Head to see two of his masters boxingover the body of one of his boys.

"Well, well," he said, "I'm glad, Ray, to hear you give such a goodaccount of yourself. We are satisfied, I may say, with your prowessin the baths this evening—you did your best, sir, you did yourbest—and we are satisfied with the attitude you have taken up inregard to this nonsensical business outside—"

"But, sir," I began, deprecatingly.

"God bless me, my man, don't interrupt! I tell you, we aresatisfied. We don't sigh for the moon; and we're not talking ofyour shortcomings. We haven't time, bless me, we haven't time.We're only talking of your virtues, which won't occupy many minutes.We are satisfied that you're not altogether a fool—that you dosome work—that you have some moral courage—that you're anathlete—and—what else was the matter, with him, Mr. Radley?—oh,that you have some position with your schoolfellows. We make you ahouse-prefect, sir, a house-prefect."

Staggered beyond measure, I suppose I showed it in my face, forSalome continued:

"Ee, my man, take off that ridiculous expression. I congratulateyou, sir—congratulate you."

And I mechanically shook hands with him. Then Radley gripped myfingers and nearly broke the knuckle-bones. Fillet also formallyproffered his hand, and I pressed it quite heartily. It was no goodgloating over a man when he was down.

After this ceremony all waited for Salome to clinch proceedings,which he did as offensively as possible by saying:

"Ee, bless me, my man, don't stand there idling all day. Go out atonce and establish order."

I went slowly down the stairs to the entrance, and, facing thecrowd, was greeted with a fire of questions: "Did you do it?" "Whatdid he say?" "How did he take it?" "Didn't you do it?"

"No," I said, and there was a temporary silence.

"Why not? Why not?"

"Because it wasn't the thing."

While no more eloquence came to my lips, plenty flowed from those ofthe boys before me. For a moment their execration seemed likely toturn upon me. At last I made myself heard.

"You see," I shouted, "only cads dispute the decision of thereferee."

"Yes, but there are exceptions to every rule," said Penny's voice.

And here I sipped the sweets of authority.

"Well, there isn't going to be any exception in this case," I said.

The crowd detected something humorous in my high-handed sentence andlaughed sarcastically. So, giving up all attempts to be persuasive,I said bluntly:

"Look here, Salome's upstairs, and he's made me a prefect and sentme down to establish order."

There were elements of greatness in Pennybet. He willinglyacknowledged that the coup d'état was not his but Salome's, andthe riot must inevitably crumble away. So he made a point of leadingthe cheers that greeted my announcement, and, coming forward, wasthe first to congratulate me. His example was extensively followed,while he looked on approvingly, as though it had all been his doing,and chirruped every now and then: "This is the jolliest day I'vespent at Kensingtowe."

CHAPTER XI

THE GREAT MATCH

§1

The next year was 1914. It found Pennybet at Sandhurst; Doebrilliantly high in the Sixth Form, and, since he was a classicalscholar and a poet, first favourite for the Horace Prize. In thecricket annals of Kensingtowe it was a remarkable year. Throughoutthe Summer Term victory followed victory. The M.C.C., having heardof Kensingtowe's super-batsmen, sent a strong team against us, whichwent under, amid cheering that lasted from 6 to 6.30 p.m. TheSportsman spoke of our fast bowler and captain as the "ComingMan." We called him "Honion," partly because his head, beingperfectly bald, resembled that vegetable, and partly because heenjoyed the prefix "The Hon." before his name. Yes, I am speaking ofthe Hon. F. Lancaster, who appeared for a few moments like a newcomet in the cricket heavens, just as the thundercloud of warblotted everything out. When the cloud should roll away, that newcomet would be no longer there.

As the term drew to its close, and the world to the War, the cricketenthusiasm possessing Kensingtowe focussed itself on the annualfixture, "The School v. The Masters." For eight years the Masters,thanks to their captain, Radley, had won with ease. The previousyear their task had been more difficult, for the shadow of "Honion"was already looming. This year that shadow overspread the world.

We had conquered everywhere, and this was our last fixture. We wouldwin: we must win. If Radley could be eliminated from the Masters'team—if, for instance, some arsenic could be placed in his tea—ourvictory would be a foregone conclusion. It was a question of"Honion" v. Radley. The enthusiasm swelled and burst theboundaries of the school. Local papers took up the subject. Londonpapers, in small-print paragraphs, copied them. Party feeling ranquite high outside the school: Middlesex supporters desired thetriumph of the Masters, which would be the triumph of S.T. Radley,their hero; Sussex supporters backed the School, for they knew that"Honion" Lancaster was to come to them. There was no party withinthe school, the school being solid for "The School."

One day Radley tapped me on the shoulder.

"Why don't you try to get in the Team?" asked he. "You're the bestbowler in the Second Eleven."

I grinned, and represented that such a consummation was of allearthly things impossible.

"I don't see why," said he. "The school's batting talent is great,but the bowling's weak."

Ye Gods! Had he ever heard of Honion?

"O, sir," I remonstrated, "but our strength lies in Honion—inLancaster, I mean."

Radley smiled.

"What other bowler of any class have you?"

It was true. I mentioned Moles White as a fine slow bowler, andcould think of no more "star-turns."

"Well, you come," said Radley, "and bowl at my private net everyevening. Your leg-breaks are teasers. I was talking to Lancasterthis morning, and he says he doesn't know who will be the last manof the Eleven. Why shouldn't it be you?"

So evening after evening I bowled to Radley, who coached meenthusiastically. I think that he was making a fascinating hobby oftraining his favourite pupil for the Team, much as an owner delightsin running a favourite horse for the Derby. And, when one evening Iuprooted his leg-stump twice in succession, he said:

"Good. Now we shall see what we shall see."

In the meantime Lancaster had buttonholed Doe.

"You used to be a great cricketer, usedn't you?"

"When I was a boy, Honion," said Doe.

"And you've slacked abominably."

"Thou sayest so, Honion."

"Well, my son, the last place in the Team is vacant. You should betoo good for the Second. Practise like fury, and the situation'syours."

§2

"What do you think, Doe?" said I. "Radley's making me sweat to getinto the Team."

A momentary pain and jealousy overspread Doe's face. Quicklypassing, it gave place to a whimsical glance, as he rejoined:

"What do you think? Honion's doing the same with me."

"Look here, then," said I, as much despairingly as generously, "I'llstand down. You'll be fifty times better than I shall."

"You won't do anything of the sort. Don't you see Radley's runningyou as a candidate to spite me? No, we'll fight this out, you and I.Shake on it, and good luck to your candidature!"

"You ripping old tragedy hero!" answered I. "Good luck to yours."

Now, all Kensingtowe amused itself speculating who would be the lastman. Many names were mentioned, but Ray was not one of them. Betswere made, and the odds were slightly in favour of Doe. Thesentiment of the school said that he ought to be played on thestrength of the brilliant things he might do.

The match drew nearer, and the secret as to the last man wasseverely kept, if, indeed, any decision had been come to. But Doewas establishing himself as favourite. Every day a crowd surroundedthe Second Eleven net, where he, with his face suffused in colourand his hair glistening with moisture, was striving to create thenecessary impression. Honion, as general, surrounded by hisstaff-officers in their caps and colours, sometimes stood by the netand pulled his chin contemplatively. And, if Doe made a fineoff-drive, all the onlookers (and Doe himself) turned and glanced atHonion, as though for a sign from Heaven. But the great man's facebetrayed no emotion.

On the day before the match, which was to be a one-day game, Honionmight have been seen crossing the field from the pavilion, where acouncil of war had just concluded. He was approaching theschool-buildings, and, like the Pied Piper, had an enormous crowdof small boys at his back. In his hand was the paper which bore thelist of the Team.

"Who is it? Who is it?" demanded the crowd.

"Wait and see," said Lancaster, as great captains do.

And at that moment a first spot of rain fell. Honion looked upapprehensively at a clouding sky. "I thought so," said he; and theweighty words were passed from lip to lip.

The multitude swelled as the Captain drew near the notice-boards.Rumour stalked abroad and loudly proclaimed that the lot had fallenupon Doe. That young cricketer was walking with me at the tail ofthe procession, very nervous but fairly confident. As for me, myheart was fluttering, and there was an emptiness within.

"Come and tell me who it is," I said to Doe. "You'll find metrembling like a frightened sparrow in the study."

With that I left him, and, going to our study, stood gazing out ofthe window at a sudden shower of rain. To nerve myself for any shockof disappointment I muttered monotonously some old words ofRadley's: "Does it matter to a strong swimmer if the wave beatsagainst him? Does it matter—does it matter—" Soon a roar of manyvoices was heard in the distance. The list was up. I could not tellwhether they were cheering in triumph or groaning in dismay. Thensomeone ran along the corridor and burst in. I remained looking outof the window lest the expression on my friend's face should betraythe secret which I longed but dreaded to hear.

"My dear old fellow," said he, "it's—"

It was coming now. What a long time he took to tell it.

"It's you!"

"Good Lord!"

I had swung round on him.

"And I hope you take all the wickets," said he, with a smile ofgenerosity that he wished me to observe.

I couldn't speak, but turned again to look out of the window. Therain was beating heavily against the panes. And Doe said nothingtill, being in a chastened mood, he resumed:

"I think you'll always cut me out, Rupert, because you're the solidstuff, while I'm all show. You left me nowhere in Radley's goodbooks, and now in cricket—"

"But you leave me nowhere in brain-work," objected I, feeling thatthe handsome appreciation, which he had tossed to me, ought to bereturned like a tennis ball.

"Oh, yes, of course, there is that," he assented. "And I may yethave won the Horace Prize."

Just then the kindly White, coming to express his sympathy, brokeinto the study and exclaimed:

"Well, we've boosted you out all right, Doe."

"Why, had I been chosen at one time, then?" asked Doe, seizing uponthis little sop to his pride.

"Of course, but look at the rain. It'll be a bowlers' wicket, andthe Skipper's done a daring thing. The school's never known it, butRay's been our difficulty, ever since Radley started booming him."

Doe brought his lips firmly together, and turned on me with a brightsmile.

"Radley's won this journey," he said, "but let him know I was thefirst to congratulate you."

§3

By ten o'clock on the Great Day a huge crowd had assembled,including visitors, parents, old boys, and quite a number ofPressmen. Pennybet arrived, invested with all the sleek majesty thatSandhurst could give him: and, seeking out Doe and myself, he lentus the dignity of his presence.

At about half-past-ten Radley came to the nets for a littlepractice, and most of us walked up to see what sort of form he wasshowing. I was feeling a little shy in my Second Eleven colours andconvinced that all the ladies were asking why my blazer wasdifferent from the others. Pennybet quickly saw that I was sensitiveon this point, and, with his cruel humour, began emphasising thelittle difficulty: "Ray, how comes it that your blazer's unlike theothers? It's very noticeable, isn't it?"

"Oh, shut up," urged I, blushing over face and neck and throat.

"All the ladies," continued my torturer, "will notice it and pityyou, saying 'Isn't he lovely?'"

I ignored him and devoted my attention to watching Radley, as hetook his place at the net, where Honion was bowling. It was clearthat he did not underestimate Honion's express deliveries, for herolled up his sleeve, displaying a massive forearm that alarmed usseriously; re-arranged his rubber bat-handle; placed his bat firmlyin the block; and faced Honion.

The silence spoke of the importance of the moment; Lancaster, ourcaptain, was measuring himself with Radley. He took his long run andbowled. Radley, with little apparent effort, drove the ball out ofthe net-mouth to the far end of the field, and re-commencedattending to his bat-handle.

"Oh, the full-blooded villain!" exclaimed Penny.

Someone handed Honion another ball, and he bowled. Radley hit itwith great force into the net on the off side. Our spirits sank.Honion was good; he was great; but he was not great enough forRadley.

The third ball Radley tapped straight to where I was standing, and Ifielded it.

"Bowl," said he.

I did not wish to do so, but it was impossible to disobey. And, as Iprepared to bowl, the silence became eloquent again. The new man,the eleventh-hour bowler, was measuring himself with Radley. Irealised that my first ball teased him. My second laid his leg-stumpon the ground. A yell of joy showed to what a height the spirits ofthe crowd had risen. But mine sank in proportion: I should neverbowl him out twice in one day....

The bell rang, and the field was cleared.

All over the ground there was an anticipatory silence, which madethe striking of the school-clock sound wonderfully loud. Then anovation greeted Lancaster, as he led his classic team on to theground.

The Masters had won the toss, and the two, who were to open thebatting, left the pavilion amid applause, and assumed their placesat the wicket. Lancaster placed his field, bowled a lightning ball,and splintered an old Oxonian's middle stump.

Here was excitement! Delirious boys prophesied that eight years'defeats would be wiped off the slate by the school's dismissing theMasters for a handful of runs, scoring a great score, and thendismissing them again, so as to win an innings victory. But stay!Who is this coming in first-wicket-down? Not Radley? Yes, byheaven, it is! He has come to see that no rot sets in. Now, Honion,you may well spit on your hands. A laugh trembles its way round thespectators, as Lancaster places his men in the deep field. He isready to be knocked about.

The first over closes for ten, all off Radley's bat, two fours and atwo. The new bowler, White, deals in slows, and the scoring partakesof the nature of the bowling. But the outstanding fact of that overis this: that Radley hit the last ball with terrific force along theground, and it was so brilliantly fielded and thrown in that itscattered the stumps before Radley, who had started to run, couldreach the crease. Suddenly, crisply, half a thousand mouths snappedout the query: "How's that!"

"Out."

With great good-humour Radley continued his run a little way, but inthe direction of the pavilion. Boys stood up and clappedfrantically, not a few seizing their neighbours and pummelling themwith clenched fists on the back. Pennybet, sitting beside Doe, shookhands with him and with a couple of undemonstrative old gentlemen,whom he had never seen before. They seemed a little overawed, as hewrung their hands.

By one o'clock the Masters were out, having compiled the diminutivescore of 99. Not once had they been asked to face my bowling. Honionand White shared the wickets between them.

Now the only question was: would the school be able to beat them byan innings, and so crown their glorious season? They had better, forthe onlookers would be content with nothing less.

Everyone adjourned for lunch. The noise in the dining halls, whichthe masters made no attempt to check, was tremendous, since all wereoffering their forecasts of the result. But this fact wasuniversally accepted: the School Eleven would play carefully tillthey had scored a hundred runs and so passed the Masters' total,after which they would adopt forcing tactics and lift the score over300. Then they would declare, and bowl the Masters out for a priceunder the spare 200 runs. Thus the innings victory would beachieved.

§4

The most effective, the most spectacular, and probably the worstinnings of the School Eleven was that played by Moles White. Hedragged his elephantine form to the wicket, and, looking round withhis genial smile, prepared to enjoy the Masters' bowling. Again andagain he lifted the ball high into the air and grinned as masterafter master dropped the catches. It was a method that could onlyhave been successful in such a match as this, where the field hadbeen taken by a team like the Masters, whose "tail" was quite out ofpractice and rather stiff in the joints.

Every vigorous hit of White's, even if it soared skyward, wascheered with loud cries of "Good old Moles!" Every time hisunpardonable catches were dropped, the acclamations were lost inlaughter. And when with a splendid stroke he lifted the score overthe Masters' total and into three figures, White enjoyed the triumphof his school career.

By this time there was collected behind the railings that surroundKensingtowe a fine crowd of carters and cabmen, who had "woahed"their horses and were standing on their boxes, enjoying an excellentview. They had no idea what the match was, or who were winning, butevery time they heard the boys begin to cheer, they waved theirhats, brandished their whips, and cheered and whistled as well. Theexcellent fellows only knew that the great crowd of young gents washappy, and were benignantly pleased to share their happiness.

White made his fifty and was bowled in attempting the mostabominable of blind-swipes. He returned towards the pavilion, so farforgetting himself in his pleasure as to swing about his bat like atennis-racket. What thunderous applause he received! It was his lastterm, and his last match. And I am glad that the final picture,which our memory preserves of White alive, shows us the sterling oafdeparting after a glorious innings, surrounded by uproariousschool-fellows, and smiling as only the righteous can. Grand oldboy, may we meet many more like you!

By a quarter to five the School total had reached the astonishingfigure of 350. To this I had contributed 4, with which I was verysatisfied, as it was four more than I expected. Lancaster declared,and the school by its applause endorsed the decision.

Now, how did the position stand? Stumps were to be drawn at 7.30. Tosave the innings defeat the Masters must score over 250 in two hoursand a half. An impossible achievement—a hundred to one on aninnings defeat! But would they all be bowled out in the little timeleft? With luck, and Honion in form, yes. And luck was with us, andHonion in great form this afternoon. Oh, a thousand to one on aninnings defeat!

§5

The School took the field without unnecessary delay, and Radleyopened the Masters' innings. They were going to make a fight of it,then. But the School had set its heart on the innings victory, andthe team had the moral strength derived from the concentrateddetermination of six hundred boys. What had the Masters to opposethis? Nothing save Radley and a handful of tarnished Blues.

It is stated that the third innings of the day opened like this:Honion started on a longer run than usual, as if to terrify thisRadley fellow. The latter, so an enormous number declared, though Icontend they were mistaken, started to run at the same time as thebowler, and, meeting the ball at full-pitch, smote it for six. Thejubilant expectations of the crowd, always as sensitive as the StockExchange, fluctuated. The second ball was square-cut more quietlyfor four. The third was driven high over the bowler's head andtravelled to the boundary-rope. Honion placed a man at the spotwhere the ball passed the rope, and sent down a similar delivery.Radley pulled it, as a great laugh went up, to the very spot fromwhich the fieldsman had been removed. Eighteen in four balls! Thespirits of the crowd drooped.

Penny, at his place with Doe, began to sulk, saying he was sick ofit all, and wished he hadn't come.

"Oh, rot," said Doe, "they haven't put our Rupert, the dark horse,on yet. I'm afraid all that's rotten in me is wanting him to be afailure. I can't help it, and I'm trying to hope he'll come off.If he does, I'll bellow! Over. White's going to bowl now."

The ground apparently favoured the slow bowler, for the first wicketfell to White's second ball. But the victim, sad to tell, was notRadley.

Hush—oh, hush. The head master was coming out to partner Radley!And, considering the silence of respect with which he was greeted, Ithink Salome scarcely behaved becomingly. He hit an undignifiedboundary for four.

"Ee, bless me, my man!" whispered the wits.

But Salome, ignorant of this mild flippancy, actually undertook torun a vulgar five for an overthrow: and by like methods succeeded inamassing a score of runs in a dozen minutes.

Meanwhile, Radley, who from the beginning had taken his life in hishands, was flogging the bowling. He and Salome quickly added fiftyto the Masters' total.

But Salome's bright young life was destined to be curtailed. Astraight, swift ball from Honion he stopped with his instep, andpromptly obeyed two laws which operate in such circ*mstances: theone compelling him to execute a pleasing dance and rub the injuredbone; and the other involving his return to the pavilion (l.b.w.) infavour of the succeeding batsman.

At this interesting development Penny bobbed up and down in his seatwith glee. "Ee, bless me! Ee, hang me! Ee, curse me!" he chirruped."He's bust the bone. He'll never walk again. Probably mortificationwill set in, and he'll have his foot off. Next man in, please. Oh, Inever enjoyed anything so much in my life."

The following two wickets were shared by Honion and White, and thescore stood at 90 for four, when the school chaplain approached thewicket. This reverend gentleman walked to his place with zealousrapidity, and proceeded to propagate the gospel with some excellenthits to leg. Three such yielded him nine runs, and at the end of theover he found himself facing Honion's bowling. The temporary dismayof the crowd disappeared. Honion, it was conjectured, would soonsend the parson indoors to evensong. But the conjecture was faulty.Honion instead was sent for a two, a boundary, and a single.

"Curse me!" grumbled Penny. "It's not in the best taste for thelearned divine to play like any godless layman. Has he nothingbetter to do? Are there no souls to save?"

"No, but there's a match to save," suggested Doe.

There was perhaps some justification for Penny's indignation, whenthis indecent ecclesiastic scored two fours in succession, andby his beaming face and intermittent giggle showed that he wasfeeling a very carnal satisfaction in sending ten members of hiscongregation, one after another, in search of the ball. Ultimatelyhe was caught low down in the slips, having compiled an excellentthirty; and he walked off, hardly concealing a smile.

As he ran up the steps of the pavilion, Upton came down, drawing onhis gloves and ready to prove that Erasmus could exhibit verycreditable pedagogues, as well as Bramhall. This slender,grey-haired master with the ruddy countenance was much favoured bythe ladies. He looked a young and blooming veteran. The boys ofErasmus gave him a cheer (for he was a good man) and prayed that hemight not survive the first ball. He did, however, and held his endup in dogged fashion, leaving Radley to develop the score, and onlyoccasionally taking a modest four for himself.

It was about this time that Radley got under a ball and sent achance whizzing towards me. It flew high, and I shot up my left handfor it. The ball hit me right in the centre of the palm with suchforce that it stung most painfully, and I had not the leasthesitation in dropping it. There were groans of disappointment fromthe males, execrations from Penny, and murmurs of sympathy and lovefrom the female portion of the crowd. But my sensations were againthe opposite to the crowd's. The pain in my hand was exactly thesame as when Radley caned me years before on the left hand: and Iwas reminded of the scene. "Put up your left hand," he had saidsarcastically. "You'll need the other for writing your lines." Now Ihad accidentally put up my left. It was surely because I should needthe other for bowling him out. Such strange alleys do my thoughtsrun along when I am woolgathering in the field.

It must be admitted that Honion was by this time a failure. Radleywas doing what he liked with the bowling. By six-thirty the scorestood at 180, and the Masters only required 70 to save them from theinnings defeat. There was an hour before them, and they had fivewickets in hand. But the light was not so good. We might do it yet.

Thirty minutes of that last hour passed, and in them forty runs werescored at a cost of three wickets. So there was half an hour left toplay, two wickets in hand, and thirty runs to get.

The ninth man failed at a quarter past seven, leaving the score at225. It rested, then, with Radley and the last man to make 25 infifteen minutes and a bad light.

The schoolboy crowd was suffering; and, when Radley smote Honion fora six, the suffering became agony. Some drastic step must be taken.

Suddenly a shrill-voiced boy sang out:

"Put Ray on. Give Ray a chance."

The crowd took it up and roared out its instructions to put Ray on.Bad form, I grant you, but then they scarcely knew what they weredoing, for they were in an ecstasy of suspense and excitement. Thecry became formidable. "Put Ray on." My face felt as if it had beenscorched at the fire. One boy roared out: "Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray,hoo-blooming-Ray!"

The crowd laughed, and, while many inquired of one another: "Whatdid he say? Do tell me," the majority adopted the cry as a slogan.

"Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray, hoo-blooming-Ray!"

Our captain deferred to the voice of public opinion.

"Take next over this end, Ray," he said.

The permission was belated enough. When amid terrific applause Ifaced Radley, there were only fourteen runs to be made and tenminutes to play.

But, then, I had only one wicket to take. The pulsations of my heartwere rapid—but dull, deliberate, and heavy as a strong man's fist.I felt as though I had not eaten anything for weeks, nor was everlikely to eat again. Honion shook his head; he saw that I wastrembling. Radley smiled encouragingly. White said: "For God's sake,Ray, pull it off." And I murmured: "Right. I'll try." I wassurprised at the way my voice shook.

I took a quiet run (though my feet sounded noisily on the turf,owing to the breathless silence) and bowled.

"Wide!"

The crowd laughed, but it was the laugh of despair. My second ballRadley hit for four. My third followed it to the boundary.

"This'll be Ray's last over," said the witty critics. It was. Therewere only five more runs to be made. The ladies, preparing fordeparture, drew on their gloves. Sedate gentlemen, who had removedtop-hats from perspiring brows, brushed the silk with their sleeves.Within a few minutes the innings victory would be won or lost.

Despair cured me of nerves. I bowled my fourth ball without anyexcitement. Radley fumbled and missed it. He smiled grimly, twistedhis bat round, adjusted the handle, and resumed his position at theblock.

Murmurs of "Well bowled" reached me: and so silent was the crowd andso still the evening, that I heard a voice saying to someone: "Thatwas a good ball, wasn't it? Absolutely beat him. In a light likethis—"

Now I was trembling, if you like. But it was not nerves. It wasconfidence that the supreme moment of my schooldays was upon me. Ipicked up the ball, muttering repeatedly but unconsciously: "O God,make me do it." I turned and faced Radley. As I took my short run, Ifelt perfectly certain that I should bowl him. And the next thing Iremember was seeing my master's leg-bail fall to the ground.

All together, none before and none after the other, every male inthe crowd bellowed forth the accumulated excitement of the day:

"OUT!"

§6

Not for half an hour that evening did the cheering cease or the massof boys begin to disperse. Even then there were little outbreaks offresh cheering coming from separate groups. A line of day-boys, whohad linked arms as, homeward bound, they left the field, dronedmerrily:

And among the dissolving cheers from the distance could occasionallybe heard the refrain of "Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray, hoo-blooming-Ray!"

CHAPTER XII

CASTLES AND BRICK-DUST

§1

It was on the day when those two pistol shots were fired at anAustrian Archduke in the streets of Serajevo that the Masters' matchwas played out at Kensingtowe. By the early evening thereverberation of the revolver reports had been felt like anearthquake-shock in all the capitals of Europe; and in a failinglight the last wicket had fallen at Kensingtowe. So it happenedthat, while the Emperors of Central Europe were whispering that theDay had come and the slaughter of the youth of Christendom mightbegin, there was a gathering in Radley's room of those insignificantpeople whose little doings you have watched at Kensingtowe. Theywere assembled to drink tea and discuss the match. There were Radleyas host; Pennybet, to represent the Old Boys; Doe and I, in finefettle for the School; and Dr. Chappy, who, having sworn that he wasa busy man and couldn't spare the time, sat spilling cigar-ash inthe best armchair, and looked like remaining for the rest of theevening.

"Stop quarrelling about the match," said Radley, as he stood withhis back to the mantelpiece, "and listen to me. It's a great day,this—a day of triumph. Ray has won the innings victory for theSchool, and Doe—"

Doe pricked up his ears.

"It's just out—Doe has won the Horace Prize."

At this news there were great congratulations of the poet, who wentred with pleasure.

"When you've all finished," said Radley, "I'll read the Prize Poem."

So Radley began faithfully from a manuscript:

"Oh, spare us!" interrupted Chappy.

"Not a bit," said Radley. "Hark to this:

"What's it all about?" grumbled Chappy. "And I'm sure 'morn' doesn'trhyme with 'dawn.'" at which Doe went white with pain, and numberedthe doctor among the Philistines.

"It's a very distinguished attempt to catch the spirit of Horace'sfine ode," answered Radley, and Doe turned red again with pleasure,forgiving Radley all the unkindness he had ever perpetrated, andenrolling him among the Elect.

Now Pennybet liked to be the centre of attraction at friendly littlegatherings like this, and had little inclination to sit and listento people praising those who recently had been nothing but hissatellites. So he lit a cigarette and said:

"It's entirely the result of my training that these young peoplehave turned out so well."

"Pennybet," explained Radley, "you're a purblind egotist and willcome to a bad end."

"Oh, I don't think so, sir," said Penny, crossing his legs that hemight the more comfortably discuss his end with Radley. "I've alwaysmanaged to do what I've wanted and to come out of it all right."

"Oh, you have, have you?" sneered Chappy.

"Always," answered Penny, unabashed. "It's a favourite saying of mymother's that 'adverse conditions will never conquer her wilfulson.'"

"Good God!" cried the doctor, rightly appalled.

"Yes," continued the speaker, delighted to tease the doctor, "forinstance, I made up my mind all the time I was here to stick in alow form. It was an easier life, and fun to boss kids like Edgar Doeand Rupert Ray. And I pulled all the strings of the famous BramhallRiot, as Ray knows. And I just did sufficient work to pass intoSandhurst. And I shall be just satisfactory enough to get mycommission. Then I shall do all in my power to provoke a EuropeanWar, so that there will be a good chance of promotion—"

"There's a type of man," interrupted Radley, "who'd start a prairiefire, if it were the only way to light his pipe."

"Exactly. And I am he."

"Good God!" repeated Chappy.

"And, after peace is declared, I shall settle down to a comfortablelife at the club."

"It's a relief," smiled Radley, "that you won't lead a revolutionand usurp the throne."

"Too much trouble. I may go into Parliament, which is a comfortablejob. On the Tory side, of course, because there you don't have tothink."

"You've about fifty years of life," suggested Radley. "And don't youwant to do anything constructive in that time?"

"Not in these trousers! I know that, if I were sincere andconstructive in my politics, I should be a Socialist. It stands toreason that it can't be right for all the wealth to be in thepockets of the few, and for there to be a distinct and co*ckygoverning class. But, as I want to amass wealth and enjoy theposition of the ruling class, I shall be careful not to think out mypolitics, lest I develop a pernicious Socialism."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned the doctor.

"I think I'm a Socialist," suddenly put in Doe, and Chappy turnedto him, dumbfounded to witness the eruption of a second youth."I've long thought that, when I find my feet in politics, I shall bein the Socialist camp. They may be visionary, but they areidealists. And I think it's up to us public-schoolboys to lead thegreat mass of uneducated people, who can't articulate their needs.I'd love to be their leader."

"What you're going to be," said Radley, "is an intellectualrebel. When you go up to Oxford in a year or so, you'll poseas most painfully intellectual. You'll be a Socialist inPolitics, a Futurist in Art, and a Modernist or Ultramontane inReligion—anything that's a rebellion against the established order.At all costs let us be original and outrageous."

"Hear, hear," whispered Penny.

"Ray has been the strong, silent man so far," said Radley. "Let'shear his Castle in the Air."

"For God's sake—" began Chappy.

"Speech! Speech!" demanded Pennybet.

"Oh, I don't know," demurred I. "I've not many ideas. I generallythink I'd like to be a country squire, very popular among thetenants, who'd have my photo on their dressers. And I'd send themall hares and pheasants at Christmas and be interested in theirdrains—"

I was elaborating this picture, when Penny, feeling that he had madehis speech and was not particularly interested in anyone else's,glanced at a gold wrist-watch, and decided that it was time for himto go. He made a peculiarly effective exit, his hat tilted at whathe called a "damn-your-eyes" angle. Never again did Doe or I seehim, though we heard of his doings. God speed to him, our co*cksurePennybet. Let us always think the best of him.

No sooner had the door clicked than Chappy exploded.

"That high youth ought to have his trousers taken down and bebirched. What are we coming to, when boys like him lecture theirelders on how to run the world?"

"That question," Radley retorted, "Adam probably asked Eve, whenCain and Abel decided to be Socialists."

"I tell you, these self-opinionated boys want whipping, and so doyou, Master Doe, with your damned Fabianism."

"Oh, come, come," objected Radley. "I like them to be gloriouslyself-confident. Young blood is heady stuff. And there'd besomething wrong, if a body full of young blood didn't have a headfull of glittering illusions."

"Rot!" proclaimed Chappy.

"I like them to be Socialists and Futurists and everything. Ifthey don't want to put the world to rights, who will?"

"Damned rot!"

"It's nothing of the sort," rejoined Radley, getting annoyed. "Theyought to break out at this time. You can't bind up a bud to preventit bursting into flower."

"If I'd children who burst like that, I'd bind them for you!"

"No, you wouldn't," contradicted Radley, softening again. "You'dexpect them to be intolerant of you as old fashioned. You'd withdrawbehind your cigar-smoke and your old-fashioned ideas, and leavethem to put the world to rights. After all, it's their world."

§2

Now, though you may think this a very uninteresting chapter—a meredialogue over the tea-cups, I take leave to present it to you asquite the most dramatic and most central of our humble tale. Theevents that lend it this distinguished character were happeninghundreds of miles from Radley's room, in places where more powerfulpeople than Penny or Doe or I were building Castles in the Air. AnEmperor was dreaming of a towering, feudal Castle, broad-based upona conquered Europe and a servile East. Nay, more, he had finishedwith dreaming. All the materials of this master-mason were ready tothe last stone. And, if the two pistol-shots meant anything, theymeant that the Emperor had begun to build.

And, since building was the order of the day, there were wise men inthe councils of the Free Nations who saw that they must destroy theEmperor's handiwork and build instead a Castle of their own, whereLiberty, International Honour, and many other lovely things mightfind a home. So for all of us self-opinionated boys, it was a matterof hours this summer evening before we should be told to tumble ourpetty Castles down, and shape from their ruins a brick or two forthe Castle of the Free Peoples. Well, we tumbled them down. And therest of this story, I think, is the story of the bricks that weremade from their dust.

§3

Doe and I left Radley and the doctor to their dispute, and retiredto our study. It was then that Doe began to blush and say:

"Funny the subject of our ambitions cropped up. Only a few days agoI tried to write a poem about it."

I pleaded for permission to read it.

"You can, if you like," he said, getting very crimson. Withtrembling hands he extracted a notebook from his pocket andindicated the poem to me. From that moment I saw that he was waitingin an agony of suspense for my approval.

I took it to the window, and, by the half-light of evening, read:

"Gad!" I said. "You're a poet."

I liked the little trifle, not least because I suspected that the"one familiar friend" was myself. Everyone likes to be mentioned ina poem.

Doe beamed with pleasure that I had not spoken harshly of hisoff-spring.

"Glad you like it," he said.

"There's this," I suggested, "you talk about only wanting 'theselittle things' out of life. But it seems to me that you want quite alot."

"A lot! By Jove, Ray," cried Doe excitedly, "it's only when I'm inmy unworldly moods that I want so little as that. In my worsemoments—that's nine-tenths of the day—I want yards more: Fame andFlattery and Power."

"Funny. Once, outside the baths, I had a sort of longing to—"

"Ray, I only tell you these things," interrupted Doe, now workedup, "but often I feel I've something in me that must comeout—something strong—something forceful."

"I don't think I ever felt quite like that," said I, ruminating."But I did once feel outside the baths—"

"The trouble is," Doe carried on, "that this something in me isn'tpure. It's mixed up with the desire for glory. When I told RadleyI'd like to be a leader of the people, I knew that one-third was areal desire for their good, and two-thirds a desire for my ownglory."

"Yes, but I was going to tell you that once—"

"And I wish it were a pure force. I'd love to pursue an Ideal forits own sake, and without any thought for my own glory. I wonder ifI shall ever do a really perfect thing."

"I was going to tell you," I persisted; and, though I knew hemeasured my temperament as far inferior to Edgar Doe's artisticsoul, and would rather have continued his own revelations, yet mustI interrupt by telling him of my one moment of aspiration andyearning. Perhaps, I, too, wanted to pour out my mind's littleadventures. We're all the same, and like a heart-to-heart talk, solong as it is about ourselves.

I told him, accordingly, of that strange evening outside the baths,when I had felt so overpowering an aspiration towards a vagueideal—an ideal that could not be grasped or seen, but was somehowboth great and good.

§4

The last evening of that summer term there was a noisy breaking-upbanquet at Bramhall House. And in the morning I went to Radley'sroom to say a separate good-bye. I was exultant. Next term seemedworlds away: and, meanwhile, eight sunny weeks of holiday stretchedbefore me. My mother and I were off for Switzerland, to whose whiteheights and blue Genevan lake she loved to take me, for it was mybirthplace, and, in her fond way, she would call me her "mountainboy," and tell an old story of a Colonel who had gazed into hisgrandson's eyes, and said: "Il a dans les yeux un coin du lac." Iwas dreaming, then, of the Swiss mountain air, and of twin whitesails on a lovely lake; and I was visualising, let me admit it, anew well-tailored suit, grey spats, socks of a mauve variety, andother holiday eruptions. So there was no space in my parochial mindfor international issues and rumours of wars. Rather I wasridiculously flushed and shining, as I came upon Radley and wishedhim a happy holiday.

Radley seemed strained, as though he had something ominous to break,and said with a dull and meaning laugh: "I'm sure I hope you haveone too."

Observing that he was in one of his harder moods, I at once becameawkwardly dumb; and there was a difficult silence, till he asked:

"Have you heard about Herr Reinhardt?"

"Mr. Cæsar? No, sir."

"Well, he left to-day for Germany."

"What on earth for?"

"Why, to shoulder a rifle, of course, and fight in the German ranks.Don't you know Germany is mobilising and will be at war with Francein about thirty hours?"

"Oh, I read something about it. But what fun!"

Radley looked irritated. In trying to break some strange news he hadwalked up a blind alley and been met by my blank wall of density. Sohe took another path.

"Pennybet is in luck, according to his ideas. All Europe plays intohis hands. He's got the war he wanted to give him rapid promotion."

"Why, sir, how will Germany affect him?"

"Only in this way," Radley announced, desperately trying to getthrough my blank wall by exploding a surprise, "that England will beat war with Germany in about three days."

"Oh, what fun! We'll give 'em no end of a thrashing. I hateGermans. Excepting Herr Reinhardt. I hope he has a decent time."

"And White and Lancaster, and all who leave this term, and perhapseven—perhaps others will get commissions at once."

"Why, sir? They're not going to Sandhurst."

"No," sighed Radley, "but they give commissions to all oldpublic-schoolboys, if there's a big war. White and Lancaster will bein the fight before many months."

"Lucky beggars!"

It was this fatuous remark which showed Radley that I had no idea ofmy own relation to the coming conflict. So he forbore to spring uponme the greatest surprise of all. He just said with a sadness and astrange emphasis:

"Well, good-bye, and the best of luck. Make the most of yourholiday. There are great times in front of you."

All the while he said it, he held my hand in a demonstrative way,very unlike the normal Radley. Then he dropped it abruptly andturned away. And I went exuberantly out—so exuberantly that I leftmy hat upon his table, and was obliged to hasten back for it. When Ientered the room again, he was staring out of the window over theempty cricket fields. Though he heard me come, he never once turnedround, as I picked up my hat and went out through the door.

And because of that I dared to wonder whether his grey eyes, wherethe gentleness lay, were not inquiring of the deserted fields: "HaveI allowed myself to grow too fond?" He seemed as if braced forsuffering.

Farewell, Radley, farewell. After all, does it matter to a strongswimmer if the wave beats against him?

BOOK II
AND THE REST—WAR

Part I: "Rangoon" Nights

CHAPTER I

THE ETERNAL WATERWAY

§1

The most clearly marked moment of my life was when I passed the fatpoliceman who was standing just inside the great gateway ofDevonport Dockyard. I was to embark that morning on a troopshipbound for the Dardanelles. As I stepped out of the publicthoroughfare, and walking through the gate, saw the fat policeman. Ipassed out of one period of my life and entered upon another.

The first period that remained outside the tall walls of thedockyard was made up of chapters of boyhood and schooldays; and agallant last chapter of playing at soldiers. Ah! this lastchapter—it had tennis and theatres and girls and kisses: a greatpatch of life! And I left it all outside the docks.

The second period, on to which I now abruptly set foot, was to beintense, highly-coloured, and scented; a rush of rapidly movingpictures of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, the bleak hills ofMudros, and the exploding shells on the peninsula of Gallipoli.

The fat policeman had a revolver slung over his shoulder, and hisbusinesslike weapon expressed better than anything else that Englandwas at war and taking no risks. He suitably challenged me:

"Your authority to go through, sir?" demanded he.

"That's where I've got you by the winter garments," said I vulgarly;and, diving my hand into my pocket, I drew out my EmbarkationOrders. They were heavily marked in red "SECRET," but I judged thepoliceman to be "in the know," and showed them to him. Properlyimpressed with the historic document, he turned to a fair-hairedyoung officer who was with me, and asked:

"You the same, sir?"

"Surely," answered my companion, which was a new way he had acquiredof saying "yes."

"Right y'are, sir," said the policeman, and we crossed the line.

My fair-haired companion was, of course, Second Lieutenant EdgarGray Doe; and it was in keeping with the destiny that entwined ourlives that we should pass the fat policeman together. And now I hadbetter tell you how it happened.

§2

On August 3, 1914, eleven months before my solemn admission intoDevonport Dockyard, I was a young schoolboy on my holidays, playingtennis in a set of mixed doubles. About five o'clock a paper-boyentered the tennis-club grounds with the Evening News. My maleopponent, although he was serving, stopped his game for a minute andbought a paper.

"Hang the paper!" called I, indifferent to the fact that the OldWorld was falling about our ears and England's last day of peace wasgoing down with the afternoon sun. "Your service. Love—fifteen."

"By Jove," he cried, after scanning the paper, "we're in!"

"What do you mean," cried the girls, "have the Germans declared waron us?"

"No. But we've sent an ultimatum to Germany which expires at twelveto-night. That means Britain will be in a state of war with Germanyas from midnight." The hand that held the paper trembled withexcitement.

"How frightfully thrilling!" said one girl.

"How awful!" whispered the other.

"How ripping!" corrected I. "Crash on with the game. Your service.Love—fifteen."

Five days later it was decided that I should not return to school,but should go at once into the army. So it was that I never finishedup in the correct style at Kensingtowe with an emotional lastchapel, endless good wishes and a lump in my throat. I just didn'tgo back.

Instead, an influential friend, who knew the old Colonel of the 2ndTenth East Cheshires, a territorial battalion of my grandfather'sregiment, secured for me and, at my request, for Doe commissions inthat unit. His Majesty the King (whom, and whose dominions, mightGod preserve in this grand moment of peril) had, it seemed, greatfaith in the loyalty and gallantry of "Our trusty and well-belovedRupert Ray," as also of "Our trusty and well-beloved Edgar GrayDoe," and was pleased to accept our swords in the defence of hisrealm.

So one day we two trusty and well-beloved subjects, flushed, verynervous, and clad in the most expensive khaki uniforms that Londoncould provide, took train for the North to interview the Colonel ofthe 2nd Tenth. He was sitting at a littered writing-table, when wewere shown in by a smart orderly. We saw a plump old territorialColonel, grey-haired, grey-moustached, and kindly in face. His khakijacket was brightened by the two South African medal ribbons; and wewere so sadly fresh to things military as to wonder whether eitherwas the V.C. We saluted with great smartness, and hoped we had madethe movement correctly: for really, we knew very little about it. Iwasn't sure whether we ought to salute indoors; and Doe, havingpolitely bared his fair head on entering the office, saluted withouta cap. I blushed at my bad manners and surreptitiously removed mine.Not knowing what to do with my hands, I put them in my pockets. Iknew that, if something didn't happen quickly, I should startgiggling. Here in the presence of our new commanding officer I feltas I used to when I stood before the head master.

"Sit down," beamed the C.O.

We sat down, crossed our legs, and tried to appear at our ease, andlanguid; as became officers.

"How old are you?" the Colonel asked Doe.

Doe hesitated, wondering whether to perjure himself and say"Twenty."

"Eighteen, sir," he admitted, obviously ashamed.

"And you, Ray?"

"Eighteen, sir," said I, feeling Doe's companion in guilt.

"Splendid, perfectly splendid!" replied the Colonel. "Eighteen, byJove! You've timed your lives wonderfully, my boys. To be eighteenin 1914 is to be the best thing in England. England's wealth used toconsist in other things. Nowadays you boys are the richest thingshe's got. She's solvent with you, and bankrupt without you.Eighteen, confound it! It's a virtue to be your age, just as it's acrime to be mine. Now, look here"—the Colonel drew up his chair, asif he were going to get to business—"look here. Eighteen years agoyou were born for this day. Through the last eighteen years you'vebeen educated for it. Your birth and breeding were given you thatyou might officer England's youth in this hour. And now you enterupon your inheritance. Just as this is the day in the history ofthe world so yours is the generation. No other generation has beencalled to such grand things, and to such crowded, glorious living.Any other generation at your age would be footling around, living ashallow existence in the valleys, or just beginning to climb aslope to higher things. But you"—here the Colonel tapped thewriting-table with his forefinger—"you, just because you've timedyour lives aright, are going to be transferred straight to themountain-tops. Well, I'm damned. Eighteen!"

I remember how his enthusiasm radiated from him and kindled aresponsive excitement in me. I had entered his room a silly boy withno nobler thought than a thrill in the new adventure on which I hadso suddenly embarked. But, as this fatherly old poet, touched byEngland's need and by the sight of two boys entering his room, sofresh and strong and ready for anything, broke into eloquence, I sawdimly the great ideas he was striving to express. I felt thebrilliance of being alive in this big moment; the pride of youth andstrength. I felt Aspiration surging in me and speeding up the actionof my heart. I think I half hoped it would be my high lot to die onthe battlefield. It was just the same glowing sensation thatpervaded me one strange evening when, standing outside the baths atKensingtowe, I first awoke to the joy of conscious life.

"D'you see what I'm driving at?" asked the old Colonel.

"Rather!" answered Doe, with eagerness. Turning towards him as hespoke, I saw by the shining in his brown eyes that the poet in himhad answered to the call of the old officer's words. His aspirationas well as mine was inflamed. Doe was feeling great. He waspicturing himself, no doubt, leading a forlorn hope into triumph, orfighting a rearguard action and saving the British line. The heroiccreature was going to be equal to the great moment and save Englanddramatically.

Pleased with Doe's ready understanding—my friend always captivatedpeople in the first few minutes—our C.O. warmed still more to hissubject. Having put his hands in his pockets and leant back in hischair to survey us the better, he continued:

"What I mean is—had you been eighteen a generation earlier, theBritish Empire could have treated you as very insignificant fry,whereas to-day she is obliged to come to you boys and say 'You taketop place in my aristocracy. You're on top because I must place thewhole weight of everything I have upon your shoulders. You're on topbecause you are the Capitalists, possessing an enormous capital ofyouth and strength and boldness and endurance. You must give it allto me—to gamble with—for my life. I've nothing to give you inreturn, except suffering and—'"

The Colonel paused, feeling he had said enough—or too much. We madeno murmur of agreement. It would have seemed like applauding inchurch. Then he proceeded:

"Well, you're coming to my battalion, aren't you?"

"Yes, rather, sir," said Doe.

"Right. You're just the sort of boys that I want. If you're youngand bold, your men will follow you anywhere. In this fight it'sgoing to be better to be a young officer, followed and loved becauseof his youth, than to be an old one, followed and trusted because ofhis knowledge. Dammit! I wish I could make you see it. But, forGod's sake, be enthusiastic. Be enthusiastic over the great crisis,over the responsibility, over your amazingly high calling."

He stopped, and began playing with a pencil; and it was some whilebefore he added, speaking uncomfortably and keeping his eyes uponthe pencil:

"Take a pride in your bodies, and hold them in condition. You'llwant 'em. There are more ways than one of getting them tainted inthe life of temptations you're going to face. I expect you—yougrasp my meaning.... But, if only you'll light up your enthusiasm,everything else will be all right."

He raised his eyes and looked at us again, saying:

"Well, good-bye for the present."

We shook hands, saluted, and went out. And, as I shut the door, Iheard the old enthusiast call out to someone who must have been inan inner room: "I've two gems of boys there—straight from school.Bless my soul, England'll win through."

§3

But, lack-a-day, here's the trouble with me. My moments ofexaltation have always been fleeting. Just as in the old school-daysI would leave Radley's room, brimful of lofty resolutions, and fallaway almost immediately into littleness again, so now I soon allowedthe lamp of enthusiasm, lit by the Colonel, to grow very dim.

It was ridicule of the fine old visionary that destroyed his power."Hallo, here come two more of the Colonel's blue-eyed boys," laughedthe officers of our new battalion the first time we came into theirview. And "The old man's mounted his hobby again," said they, afterany lecture in which he alluded to Youth and Enthusiasm.

Yet the Colonel was right, and the scoffers wrong. The Colonel was apoet who could listen and hear how the heart of the world wasbeating; the scoffers were prosaic cattle who scarcely knew that theworld had a heart at all. He turned us, if only for a moment, intoyoung knights of high ideals, while they made us sorry, conceitedyoung knaves.

You shall know what knaves we were.

So far from being enthusiastic over parades and field days, we foundthem most detestably dull and longed for the pleasures that followedthe order to dismiss. And after the Dismiss we were utterly happy.

It was happiness to walk the streets in our new uniforms, and totake the salutes of the Tommies, the important boy-scouts, and themilitary-minded gutter urchins. I longed to go home on leave, sothat in company with my mother I could walk through the worldsaluted at every twenty paces, and thus she should see me in all myglory. And when one day I strolled with her past a Hussar sentry whobrought his sword flashing in the sun to the salute, I felt I hadseldom experienced anything so satisfying.

I was secretly elated, too, in possessing a soldier servant to waiton me hand and foot—almost to bath me. I spoke with a concealedrelish of "my agents," and loved to draw cheques on Cox and Co. Ilooked forward to Sunday Church Parade, for there I could wear mysword. It was my grandfather's sword, and I'm afraid I thought lessof the romance of bearing it in defence of the Britain that he lovedand the France where he lay buried than of its flashy appearance andthe fine finish it gave to my uniform. I was a strange mixture, for,when the preacher, looking down the old Gothic arches, said: "Thishistoric church has often before filled with armed men," I shiveredwith the poetry of it; and yet, no sooner had I come out into themodern sunlight and seen the congregation waiting for the soldiersto be marched off, than I must needs be occupied again with thepeculiarly dashing figure I was cutting.

Once Doe and I went on a visit to Kensingtowe, partly out of loyaltyto the old school, and partly to display ourselves in our newgreatness. We wore our field-service caps at the jaunty angle of allright-minded subalterns. Though only unmounted officers, we weredressed in yellow riding-breeches with white leather strappings.Fixed to our heels were the spurs that we had long possessed insecret. They jingled with every step, and the only thing that marredthe music of their tinkle was the anxiety lest some officer of the2nd Tenth should see us thus arrayed. Doe was in field boots, buthis pleasure in being seen in this cavalry kit was quite spoiled byhis fear of being ridiculed for "swank." Both of us would have likedto take our batmen with us and to say: "Don't trouble, my man willdo that for you."

We created a gratifying sensation at Kensingtowe. It wasexhilarating to have a friend come up to me and exclaim: "By Jove,Ray, you're no end of a dog now," and to notice that he didn't heedmy self-depreciatory answer because he was busy looking into everydetail of my uniform. "What devilish fine fellows we are, eh what?"cried our admirers, and we blushed and said "Oh, shut up." We metold Dr. Chappy, who looked us up and down, roared with laughter, andsaid "Well, I'll be damned!" We were welcomed into Radley's room,and were boys enough to address him as "sir" as though we were stillhis pupils. He examined our appearance like a big brother proud oftwo young ones, and said after a silence:

"So this is what it has all come to."

I took a lot of my cronies out to tea in the town, and, as we walkedto the shops, stared down the road to see if any Tommies were comingwho would salute me in front of my guests. Luck was kind to me. Fora large party, marching under an N.C.O., approached us; and theN.C.O. in a voice like the crack of doom cried "Party—eyes RIGHT!"Heads and eyes swung towards me, the N.C.O. saluted briskly, and,when the party had passed us, yelled "Eyes FRONT!" It was one of themost triumphant moments of my career.

Scarcely, however, had this pride-tickling honour been paid to mebefore there happened as distressing a thing as—oh, it wasdreadful! I passed one of your full-blooded regular-army sergeants,and, since he raised his hand towards his face, I apprehended he wasabout to salute me. Promptly I acknowledged the expected salute,only to discover that the sergeant had raised his hand for no otherpurpose than to blow his nose with his naked fingers. Believe me,even now, when I think of this blunder, I catch my breath withshame.

What young bucks we were, Doe and I! We bought motor-bicycles andraced over the country-side, Doe, ever a preacher of Life, callingout "This is Life, isn't it?" I remember our bowling along adeserted country road and shouting for a lark: "Sing of joy, sing ofbliss, it was never like this, Yip-i-addy-i-ay!" I remember ourscorching recklessly down white English highways, with a laugh forevery bone-shaking bump, and a heart-thrill for every time we riskedour lives tearing through a narrow passage between two WarDepartment motor lorries. I see the figure of Doe standingbreathless by his bicycle after a break-neck run, his hair blowninto disorder by the wind, and the white dust of England round hiseyes and on his cheeks, and saying: "My godfathers, this is Life!"Oh, yes, it was a rosy patch of life and freedom.

§4

But, in our abandonment, we tumbled into more sinister things. Itwas disillusionment that bowled us down. The evil that we saw in theworld and the army smashed our allegiance to the old moral codes. Wesuddenly lost the old anchors and blew adrift, strange new theoriesfilling our sails. We ceased to think there was any harm in beingoccasionally "blotto" at night, or in employing the picturesque armyword "bloody." Worse than that, we began to believe that viciousthings, which in our boyhood had been very secret sins, wereuniversally committed and bragged about.

"It's so, Rupert," said Doe, in a corner of the Officers' ante-roomone night before dinner, "I'm an Epicurean. Surely the Body doesn'tprompt to pleasure only to be throttled? There's something in whatthey were saying at Mess yesterday that these things are normal andnatural. I mean, human nature is human nature, and you can't alterit. I don't think any man is, or can be, what they call 'pure.' Is'pose every man has done these things, don't you?"

"No, I don't," I answered, conscious of hot cheeks. "We may dothem, but there are people I can't imagine it of."

"But, again, there's the question whether War doesn't mean thesuspension of all ordinary moral laws. The law that you shan't killis in abeyance. The instinct of self-preservation has to besuppressed. There's some justification for being an Epicurean forthe duration of the war."

"Perhaps so," acknowledged I. "I don't know."

As we left the ante-room and sat down to Mess, Doe announced:

"I've every intention of getting tight to-night."

"Pourquoi pas?" said I. "C'est la guerre!"

"Before I die," continued Doe, who was already flushed with gin andvermouth, "I want to have lived. I want to have touched all the joysand experiences of life. Pass the Chablis. Here's to you, Rupert.Cheerioh!"

"Cheerioh!" toasted I, raising my glass. "Happy days!"

"I'm determined to be able to say, Rupert, whatever happens: 'Nevermind, I had a good time while it lasted!'"

"I'm with you," said I, who was now nearly as flushed as he. "Let'sbe in everything up to the neck."

"Surely," Doe endorsed. "C'est la guerre!"

So with the meat and sweets went the wines of France; with the nutsthe sparkling "bubbly"; and in the ante-room Martinis, Benedictines,and Whisky-Macdonalds. Soon the night became noisy, and Doe,encouraged by riotous subalterns, jumped on a table and declaimed alittle thickly his prize Horatian Ode:

And, after all this, it was an easy step, lightly taken, to thethings of night. We set out for the strange streets; and there, inthe night air, the precocious young pedant, Edgar Doe, became,despite all the new theories, the shy, simple boy he really was. Wewould both become shy—shy of each other, and shy of the shamefuldoorway.

And then the misery of the morning, to be quickly forgotten in thejoy of life!

§5

It was now that the Battle of Neuve Chapelle quenched Pennybet.Archibald Pennybet, the boy who left school, determined to conquerthe world, and coolly confident of his power to mould circ*mstancesto his own ends, was crushed like an insect beneath the heavy footof war. He was just put out by a high-explosive shell. It didn'tkill him outright, but whipped forty jagged splinters into his body.He was taken to an Advanced Dressing Station, where a chaplain, whotold us about his last minutes, found him, swathed in bandages fromhis head to his heel. On a stretcher that rested on trestles he waslying, conscious, though a little confused by morphia. He saw thechaplain approaching him, and murmured, "Hallo, padre." So numerouswere his bandages that the chaplain saw nothing of the boy who wasspeaking save the lazy Arab eyes and the mouth that had framedimpudence for twenty years.

"Hallo, what have you been doing to yourself?" asked the chaplain.

"Oh, only trying conclusions with an H.E., padre." The mouth smiledat the corners.

"What about a cup of tea, now? Could you drink it?"

"I'll—try, padre." The eyes twinkled a little.

So the chaplain brought a mug of stewed tea, and Penny, laughingweakly, said:

"You'll—have to pour it down—for me, padre. I can't move a muscle.These bloody bandages—sorry, padre—these bandages. O God—"

"In pain?" gently inquired the chaplain.

"No. Only a prisoner. I can't move. Pour the tea down."

He gulped a little of the drink, and, dropping the heavily-fringedeyelids, so that he appeared to be asleep, muttered:

"I suppose—I haven't a dog's chance. Find out if—I'm done for.Find out for me, please."

"I asked the doctor before I came to you, old chap."

On hearing this, Penny opened and shut his eyes, and remained solong just breathing that the chaplain wondered if he had lostconsciousness. But the eyes unclosed again, and the lips asked:

"Aren't you going to tell me, padre?"

"Yes, I—you won't be a prisoner much longer, old chap."

Not a word said Penny, but stared in wonder at his informant. It wasclear that he wanted to live, and to mould the world to his will.There was a long silence, and then he murmured:

"Well, there are lots of others—who've gone through it—and lotsmore who'll—have to go." And he shut his eyes in weary submission.

The chaplain suggested a prayer with him, and Penny agreed in thehalf-jesting words: "But you'll—have to do it all for me, just asyou poured the tea down. I'm no good at that sort of thing."

And, when the prayer was over, he said with his old haughtiness:

"You know, padre—I was thinking—while you prayed. I suppose I'veled a selfish life—seeking my own ends—but, by Jove, I've had mygood time—and am ready to pay for it—if I must." His eyes flasheddefiantly. "If God puts me through it, I shan't whine."

As the end drew nearer, he turned more and more into a child. Afterall, he had never come of age. He spoke about his mother, sendingher his love, and saying: "I'm afraid, padre, that I led her alife—but I'll bet she'd rather have had me and my plagues than not.Don't you think so?"

He mentioned us with affection as "those two kids," and sent themessage that he hoped we at least should come through all right.

And then the lazy eyes closed in their last weariness, the impudentlips parted, and Penny was dead. The War had beaten him. It was toobig a circ*mstance for him to tame.

§6

The night we heard of it, Doe threw himself into a chair and said:

"I'm miserable to-night, Rupert."

"So'm I," said I, looking out of the window over a moonlit sea."Poor old Penny. I don't know why it makes one feel a cur, but itdoes, doesn't it?"

"Surely," answered Doe.

For a time we smoked our pipes in silence. I gazed at the longsilver pathway that the light of the moon had laid on the sea. Righton the horizon, where the pathway met the sky, a boat with a tallsail stood black against the light. Fancifully I imagined that itsdark shape resembled the outline of a man—say, perhaps, the figureof Destiny—walking down the sparkling pathway towards us. I was inthe mood to fancy such things. Then Doe from his chair said:

"Old Penny always took the lead with us, didn't he? He's taken itagain."

"I don't see what you mean," answered I.

"Oh, it doesn't matter what I mean. I'm depressed to-night."

We spoke of it with the Colonel the next afternoon, when we werehaving tea in his private room.

"It doesn't seem fair," complained Doe. "He could have done anythingwith his life," and he added rather tritely: "Penny's story whichmight have been monumental is now only a sort of broken pillar overa churchyard grave."

"Nonsense," snapped the Colonel. "It was splendid, perfectlysplendid." And he arose from his chair and took down from a shelf alittle blue volume bearing the title "1914." With a pencil heunderlined certain phrases in a sonnet, and handed the book to us.Doe brought his head close to mine, and we leant over the markedpage and read the lines together:

The Colonel—how like him!—saw the story of Pennybet, not as abroken pillar, but as a graceful, upright column, with a richlyfoliated capital.

§7

The march of History in these wonderful months brought with it anevent that stirred the world. This was the first great landing ofthe British Forces on the toe of the Gallipoli Peninsula, in theirattempt to win a way for the Allied Navy through the Straits of theDardanelles. On April 25th, 1915, as all the world knows, the men ofthe 29th Division came up like a sea-breeze out of the sea, and,driving the Turks and Germans from their coastal defences, sweptclear for themselves a small tract of breathing room across thatextremity of Turkey. Leaping out of their boats, and crashingthrough a murderous fire, they won a footing on Cape Helles, andplanted their feet firmly on the invaded territory.

Three Kensingtonians known to us fell dead in that costly battle.Stanley, who tried me in the Prefects' Room, took seven machine-gunbullets in his body, and died in a lighter as it approached thebeach. Lancaster, who in less grand years would undoubtedly havebowled for Oxford and England, lay down on W. Beach and died. AndWhite, the gentle giant—Moles White, who swam so bravely in theBramhall-Erasmus Race, was knocked out somewhere on the high groundinland.

And, almost immediately after that distant battle of the Hellesbeaches, in the early days of May, when England was all blossom andbud, our First Line of the Cheshires was landed on Gallipoli tosupport the 29th Division. The news was all over the regiment in notime. The First Line had gone to the Dardanelles! Had we heard thelatest? The First Line were actually on Gallipoli!

Consider what it meant to us. We were the Second Line, whose objectwas to supply reinforcing drafts to the First Line in whatevercountry it might be ordered to fight. The First Line—we were proudof the fact—had been the first territorial division to leaveEngland. In September, 1914, it had sailed away, in an imposingconvoy of transports escorted by cruisers and destroyers, underorders to garrison Egypt. There it had acted as the Army ofOccupation till that April day when the 29th Division laughed at theprophecies of the German experts and stormed from the Ægean Sea thebeaches of Cape Helles. Scarcely had the news electrified Egyptbefore the First Line received its orders to embark for Overseas.And every man of them knew what that meant.

So all we of the 2nd Tenth seemed marked down like branded sheep forthe Gallipoli front. The Colonel was full of it. With his elect mindthat saw right into the heart of things, he quickly unveiled thepoetry and romance of Britain's great enterprise at Gallipoli. Hecrowded all his young officers into his private room for a lectureon the campaign that was calling them. Having placed them onchairs, on the carpet, on the hearth-rug, and on the fender, heseated himself at his writing-table, like a hen in the midst of itschickens, and began:

"For epic and dramatic interest this Dardanelles business is easilytop."

To the Colonel everything that he was enthusiastic about was epicand dramatic and "on top." Just as he told us that our day was theday and our generation the generation, so now he set out to assureus that Gallipoli was the front.

"If you'll only get at the IDEAS behind what's going on at theHelles beaches," he declared, with a rap on the table, "you'll bethrilled, boys."

Then he reminded us that the Dardanelles Straits were the Hellespontof the Ancient world, and the neighbouring Ægean Sea the most mysticof the "wine-dark seas of Greece": he retold stories of Jason andthe Argonauts; of "Burning Sappho" in Lesbos; of Achilles in Scyros;of Poseidon sitting upon Samothrace to watch the fight at Troy; andof St. John the Divine at Patmos gazing up into the HeavenlyJerusalem.

As he spoke, we were schoolboys again and listened with wide-open,wistful eyes. From the fender and the hearth-rug, we saw Leanderswimming to Hero across the Dardanelles; we saw Darius, the Persian,throwing his bridge over the same narrow passage, only to bedefeated at Marathon; and Xerxes, too, bridging the famous straitsto carry victory into Greece, till at last his navy went under atSalamis. We saw the pathetic figure of Byron swimming where Leanderswam; and, in all, such an array of visions that the lure of theEternal Waterway gripped us, and we were a-fidget to be there.

"Have eyes to see this idea also," said the Colonel, who was a Toryof Tories. "England dominates Gibraltar and Suez, the doors of theMediterranean; let her complete her constellation by winning fromthe Turk the lost star of the Dardanelles, the only other entranceto the Great Sea."

This roused the jingo devil in us, and we burst into applause.

Knowing thereby that he had won his audience, the Colonel beamedwith inspiration. He rose, as though so enthralling a subject couldonly be dealt with standing, and cried:

"See this greater idea. For 500 years the Turk, by occupyingConstantinople, has blocked the old Royal Road to India and theEast. He is astride the very centre of the highways that should linkup the continents. He oppresses and destroys the Arab world, whichshould be the natural junction of the great trunk railways that,to-morrow, shall join Asia, Africa, and Europe in one splendidspider's web. You are going to move the block from the line, and tojoin the hands of the continents. Understand, and be enthusiastic. Itell you, this joining of the continents is an unborn babe ofhistory that leapt in the womb the moment the British battleshipsappeared off Cape Helles."

"By Jove, the Colonel's great!" thought I, as my heart jumped at hismagnificent words. "Where are his scoffers to-day? He's come intohis own." Lord, how small my little vanities seemed now! A fig forthem all! I was going out to build history. The Colonel had one atleast who was with him to the death.

"So much for secular interest," continued the Colonel, droppinghis voice. "Now, boys, follow me through this. You're notover-religious, I expect, but you're Christians before you'reMoslems, and your hands should fly to your swords when I say theGallipoli campaign is a New Crusade. You're going out to forcea passage through the Dardanelles to Constantinople. AndConstantinople is a sacred city. It's the only ancient city purelyChristian in its origin, having been built by the first ChristianEmperor in honour of the Blessed Virgin. Which brings us to thenoblest idea of all. In their fight to wrest this city from theTurk, the three great divisions of the Church are united once more.The great Roman branch is represented by the soldiers and ships ofFrance: the great Eastern Orthodox branch by the Russians, who arebehind the fight: the great Anglican branch by the British, who canbe proud to have started the movement, and to be leading it. ThusChristendom United fights for Constantinople, under the leadershipof the British, whose flag is made up of the crosses of the saints.The army opposing the Christians fights under the crescent of Islam.

"It's the Cross against the Crescent again, my lads. By Jove, it'ssplendid, perfectly splendid! And an English cross, too!

"Thank you, gentlemen; that's all; thank you."

§8

The blossom and buds of our English May became the fruit and flowersof July, and Doe and I, maturing too, entered upon the age forActive Service. There came a day when we were ordered to report fora doctor's examination to see if we were fit for the front.

I shan't forget that testing. All thought we had little to fear fromthe doctor. The drills and route-marches in sun, wind and rain hadtanned our flesh to pink and brown, and lit the lamps of health inour eyes. And the whites of those eyes were blue-white.

But the doctor, a curt major, said "Strip," and took Doe first.

Now, a glance at Doe, when stripped, ought to have satisfied adoctor. His figure, small in the hips, widened to a chest like aGreek statue's; his limbs were slender and rounded; his skin was ababy's. But no, the stolid old doctor carried on, as though Doe werenothing to sing songs about. He tested his eyes, surveyed his teeth,tried his chest, tapping him before and behind, and telling him tosay "99" and to cough. All these liberties so amused Doe that hecould scarcely manage the "99" or the cough for giggling. And I wasdoing my best to increase his difficulty by pretending to be inconvulsions of smothered laughter.

Then the doctor sounded Doe's heart, and, as he did it, all thelaughter went out of my life. I suddenly remembered a scene, whereinI lay in the baths at Kensingtowe, recovering from a faint, and Dr.Chappy looked down upon me and said: "There may be a weakness atyour heart." As I remembered it, the first time for years, my heartmissed its beats. I saw rapidly succeeding visions of my rejectionby the doctor; my farewell to Doe, as he left for romanticGallipoli; and my return to the undistinguished career of theMedically Unfit. I found myself repeating, after the fashion ofyounger days (though at this wild-colt period I had done with God):"O God, make him pass me. O God, make him pass me."

"All right, get dressed," the doctor commanded Doe.

"Come here, you," he said to me, brutally.

My eyes, teeth, and chest satisfied him; and then, like a loathlyeavesdropper, he listened at my heart. I was afraid my nervousnesswould cause some irregular action of the detestable organ that wouldfinally down me in his eyes.

"All right, get dressed," he said; and, having put his stethoscopeaway, he wrote something on two printed Army Forms and sealed them.

"Are we fit, sir?" asked I, in suspense.

"I've written my verdict," he said snappily, looking at me asmuch as to say: "You aren't asked to converse. This isn't aconversazione"; but, when he caught my gaze, he seemed, to repentof his harshness, and answered gruffly:

"Both perfect."

"Oh, thanks, sir," said I. I could have kissed the old churl.

And so, before July was out, when Doe and I were at our separatehomes on a last leave, we received from the Director-General ofMovements our Embarkation Orders. Marked "SECRET," the documentsinformed us that we were to report at Devonport "in service dressuniform," with a view to proceeding to "the Mediterranean."Seemingly we were to take no drafts of men, but travel independentlyas reinforcements to the First Line at Cape Helles.

My mother turned very white when I showed her the letter. She hadheard ugly things about the Gallipoli Peninsula. People were sayingthat the life of a junior subaltern on Helles was working out to anaverage of fourteen days; and that, in the heat, the flies and dustwere scattering broadcast the germs of dysentery and enteric. And Ibelieve my restless excitement hurt her. But she only said: "I'm soproud of it all," and kissed me.

The last night, however, as she sat in her chair, and I, afterwalking excitedly about, stood in front of her, she took both myhands and drew me, facing her, against her knees. I know she foundit sweet and poignant to have me in that position, for, when I was avery small boy, it had been thus that she had drawn me to tell mestories of my grandfather, Colonel Ray. She had dropped the habit,when I was a shy and undemonstrative schoolboy, but had resumed ithappily during the last two years, for, by then, I had learnt in mygrowing mannishness to delight in half-protectingly, half-childishlystroking and embracing her.

She drew me, then, this last night against her knees and lookedlovingly at me. Her yearning heart was in her eyes. Her hands,clasping mine, involuntarily gripped them very tight, as though shewere thinking: "I cannot give him up; I cannot let him go."

I smiled down at her, and, as I saw the moisture veil her eyes, Ifelt that I, too, would like to cry. At last she said:

"If I'm never to see you again, Rupert, I shall yet always bethankful for the nineteen years' happiness you've given me."

"Oh, mother," I said. No more words could I utter, for my eyes weresmarting worse than ever. I felt about eight years old.

"If all the rest of my life had to be sorrow," she whispered, nolonger concealing the fact that she was breaking down, "the lastnineteen years of you, Rupert, have made it all so well worthliving. I shall have had more happiness out of it than sorrow. Thankyou—for all you've given me."

She let go of my left hand, so as to free her own, with which shemight wipe her overflowing eyes. Then she dropped the cambrichandkerchief into her lap, and grasped my hand again. As for me, Ikept silence, for my mother's thanks were making my breath come inthose short, quick gasps, which a man must control if he wouldprevent them breaking into sobs.

"You see," she explained, "you had his eyes. Your grandfather usedto say of you, 'he has that Rupert's eyes.'"

"Mother!" I ejacul*ted. Only in that last moment did I, thoughtlessboy that I was, enter into an understanding of my mother's love forthe father I had never seen. In the last evening of nineteen yearsthere was revealed to me all that my mother's young widowhood hadmeant to her.

"I didn't want to break down," she apologised, drawing me evencloser to her, as though appealing for my forgiveness, "but, oh! Icouldn't help it. I've never loved you so desperately as I do atthis moment."

"Mother," I stuttered, "I've been rotten—more rotten than youknow."

"No, my big boy, you've been perfect. I wouldn't have had youdifferent in any way. Everything about you pleased me. And how—howcan I give you up?"

"I'll come back to you, mother. I swear I will."

"Oh, but you mustn't allow any thought of me to unnerve you outthere, Rupert," she said, quickly releasing my hands, lest it weretraitorous to hold me back. "Do everything you are called todo—however dangerous—" The word caused her to sob. "Don't think ofme when you've got to fight. No, I don't mean that—" Motherwas torn between her emotions. "Rather think of me, and dothe—dangerous thing—if it's right—yes, do it—because I want youto, but oh!" she sobbed, "come back to me—come back—come back."

I leant over and, lifting her face up gently with both my hands,kissed her and said:

"Yes, mother."

And then by a sudden effort of her will she seemed to recover. Shesaid smilingly and almost calmly:

"I'm so proud. I think it's wonderful your going out there."

§9

What more is there to tell of that old first period of my life whichended at the gates of Devonport Dockyard? There was a long railwayjourney with Doe, where half the best of green England, clad insummer dress, swept in panorama past our carriage windows. Perhapswe both watched it pass a little wistfully. Perhaps we thought ofbygone holiday-runs, when we had watched the same telegraph linesswitchbacking to Falmouth. There was a one-night stay at the RoyalHotel, Devonport; and a walk together in the fresh morning down tothe Docks. There was a woman who touched Doe's sleeve and said: "Youpoor dear lamb," and annoyed him grievously. There was the fatpoliceman's challenge at the gates. And then we were through.

We had walked a little way, when a boy from the Royal Hotel, whomthe policeman suffered to pass, ran up to us like a messenger from aworld we had left behind.

"Lieutenant Ray, sir," he called.

I turned round and said "Yes?" inquiringly.

"Here's a telegram, sir, that arrived just after you left."

I took it undismayed, knowing it to be yet another telegram of goodwishes. "I'll bet you, you poor dear lamb," I said to Doe, "thewords are either 'Good-bye and God-speed,' or 'Cheerioh and a safereturn.'"

"Not taking the bet," said Doe. "How else could it be phrased?"

"Well, we'll see," said I, and opened the envelope. The words were:

"I am with you every moment—MOTHER."

CHAPTER II

PADRE MONTY AND MAJOR HARDY COME ABOARD

§1

Doe and I have often looked back on our first glimpse of Padre Montyand wondered why nothing foreshadowed all that he was going to be tous. We had entered the Transport Office on one of the DevonportQuays, to report according to orders. Several other officers werebefore us, handing in their papers to a Staff Officer. The one in achaplain's uniform, bearing on his back a weighty Tommy's pack, thatmade him look like a campaigner from France, was Padre Monty. Wecould only see his back, but it seemed the back of a young man,spare, lean, and vigorous. His colloquy with the Staff Officer wascreating some amusem*nt in his audience.

"Well, padre," the Staff Officer was saying, as he handed backMonty's papers, "I'm at a loss what to do with you."

"The Army always is at a loss what to do with padres," rejoinedMonty pleasantly, as he took the papers and placed them in a pocket."However, you needn't worry, because, having got so far, I'm goingon this blooming boat."

"But I've no official intimation of your embarking on theRangoon."

Padre Monty picked up a square leather case and, moving to the door,said:

"No, but you've ocular demonstration of it."

And he was gone.

When our turn came, the Staff Officer consulted a list of namesbefore him and said:

"The Rangoon. She's at the quay opposite the Great Crane."

The Rangoon, as we drew near, showed herself to be a splendidliner, painted from funnel to keel the uniform dull-black of atransport. All over and about this great black thing scurried andswarmed khaki figures, busy in the work of embarkation. We rushed upthe long gangway, and pleaded with the Embarkation Officer for atwo-berth cabin to ourselves. The gentleman damned us most heartily,and said: "Take No. 54." We hurried away to the State Rooms andflung our kit triumphantly on to the bunks of Cabin 54.

It was at this moment that a mysterious occupant of Cabin 55, nextdoor, who had been singing "A Life on the Ocean Wave," came to theend of his song and roared: "Steward!"; after which he commenced towhistle "The Death of Nelson." We heard the steps of the stewardpass along the alley-way and enter 55.

"Yes, sir?" his voice inquired.

But our neighbour was not to be interrupted in his tune. He whistledit to its last note, and then said:

"I say, steward, I'm sure you're not at all a damnable fellow, so Iwant you to understand early that you'll get into awful trouble ifI'm not looked after properly—-what. There'll be the mostdeplorable row if I'm not looked after properly."

"Well, I'm hanged!" whispered Doe. "I'm going to see who themerchant is." He disappeared; and was back in ten seconds,muttering, "Good Lord, Rupert, it's a middle-aged major with amonocle; and its kit's marked 'Hardy.'"

And, while we were wondering at such spirits in a major, and in onewho was both middle-aged and monocled, two bells sounded from thebows, two more answered like an echo from the boat-deck above, andMajor Hardy was heard departing with unbecoming haste down thealley-way.

"What's that mean?" asked Doe.

"Luncheon bell, I s'pose," replied I. "Come along."

We found our way down to the huge dining saloon, which was furnishedwith thirty separate tables. Looking for a place where we couldlunch together, we saw two seats next the padre, whose conversationin the Transport Office had entertained us. We picked a routethrough the other tables towards him.

"Are these two seats reserved, sir?" I asked.

Padre Monty turned a lean face towards Doe and me, and looked us upand down.

"Yes," he said. "Reserved for you."

I smiled at so flattering a way of putting it, and, sitting down,mumbled: "Thanks awfully."

There were two other people already at the table. One was a long andlanguid young subaltern, named Jimmy Doon, who declared that he hadlost his draft of men (about eighty of them) and felt much happierwithout them. He thought they were perhaps on another boat.

"Are they officially on board the Rangoon?" asked Padre Monty.

"Officially they are," sighed Jimmy Doon, "but that's all. However,I expect it's enough."

"Well, your draft is better off than I am," said Monty. "It at leastexists officially, whereas I'm missing. I haven't officiallyarrived at Devonport. The War Office will probably spend months andreams of paper (which is getting scarce) in looking for me. But Idon't suppose it matters."

"Oh, what does anything matter?" grumbled Jimmy Doon. "We shall allbe dead in a month—all my draft and you and I; and that'll save theWar Office a lot of trouble and a lot of paper." He trifled with apiece of bread, and concluded wearily: "Besides this unseemly warwill be over in six months. The Germans will have us beaten bythen."

At this point the other passenger at the table gave us a shock bysuddenly disclosing his identity. He put a monocle in his eye,summoned a steward, and explained:

"This is my seat at meals—what. Do you see, steward? Andunderstand, there'll be the most awful bloody row, if I'm not lookedafter properly."

Major Hardy dropped the monocle on his chest and apologised toMonty: "Sorry, padre." Then he took the menu from the steward, and,having replaced his monocle and read down a list of no less thanfourteen courses, announced:

"Straight through, steward—what."

The steward seemed a trifle taken aback, but concealed his emotionand passed the menu to Jimmy Doon. Mr. Doon, it was clear, found inthis choosing of a dish an intellectual crisis of the first order.

"Oh, I don't know, steward, damn you," he sighed. "I'll have atedious lemon sole. No—as you were—I'll, have a grilled chop."And, quite spent with this effort, he fell to making balls out ofpellets of bread and playing clock golf with a spoon.

During the meal Major Hardy and Padre Monty talked "France," asveterans from the Western Front will continue to do till theirgeneration has passed away.

"I was wounded at Neuve Chapelle—what," explained the Major."Sent to a convalescent home in Blighty. Discharged as fit for dutythe day we heard of the landing at Cape Helles. Moved Heaven andearth, and ultimately the War Office, to be allowed to go toGallipoli."

(Major Hardy might have said more. He might have told us that he hadbeen recommended once for a D.S.O., and twice for a court-martial,because he persisted in devoting his playtime to sharpshooting andsniping in No Man's Land, and to leading unauthorised patrols on tothe enemy's wire. But it was not till later that we were to learnwhy he had been known throughout his Army Corps as MajorFool-hardy.)

Padre Monty had not been wounded, it seemed, but only buried alive.

"The doctor and I had been taking cover in a shell-hole," heexplained, between the sweet and the dessert, "when a high-explosivehurled the whole of our shelter on top of us, leaving only our headsfree. We were two heads sticking out of the ground like two turnips.After about five hours the C.O. sent a runner to find the padre andthe M.O., alive or dead. The fellow traced us to our shell-hole, andwhen he saw our heads, he actually came to attention and saluted.'The C.O. would like to see you in the Mess, sir,' said he to me.'And I should dearly like to see him in the Mess,' said I. 'However,stand at ease.' 'Stand at the devil,' said the doctor. 'Go and getspades and dig us out.'"

"Hum," commented Major Hardy, "if you weren't a padre, I shouldbelieve that story. But all padre are liars, what."

Monty bowed acknowledgments.

"And then," suggested the Major, "you felt the pull of theDardanelles."

"Exactly, who could resist it? I wasn't going to miss the mostromantic fight of all. The whole world's off to the Dardanelles. Iknew the East Cheshire's chaplain was coming home, time expired, soI applied—"

"How ripping! That's our brigade," interrupted I, unconsciouslyreturning his previous flattery.

"Is that so?" said he. "Well, let's go above and get to know oneanother."

We went on deck, he, Doe, and I, and watched the new arrivals.Troop-trains were rolling right up to the quay and disgorginghundreds of men, spruce in their tropical kit of new yellow drilland pith helmets. Unattached officers arrived singly or in pairs; incarriages or on foot. Many of them were doctors, who were beingdrafted to the East in large numbers. A still greater proportionconsisted of young Second Lieutenants, who, like ourselves, werebeing sent out to replace the terrible losses in subalterns.

"The world looks East this summer," mused Monty. Then he turned tome in a sudden, emphatic way that he had when he was going to holdforth. "But there's a thrill about it all, my lads. It means greatdevelopments where we're going to. Six new divisions are beingquietly shipped to the Mediterranean. You and I are only atoms in alandslide towards Gallipoli. There's some secret move to force thegates of the Dardanelles in a month, and enter Constantinople beforeChristmas. Big things afoot! Big things afoot!"

"Jove! I hope so," said I, caught by his keenness.

"Just look round," pursued Monty, switching off in his own style toa new subject, "isn't our Tommy the most lovable creature in theworld?"

I followed his glance, and saw that the decks were littered withrecumbent Tommies, who, considering themselves to have embarked, hadcast off their equipment and lain down to get cool and rested.

"Look at them!" spouted Monty, and by his suddenness I knew he wasabout to hold forth at some length. "You'll learn that the Army,when on active service, does an astonishing amount of waiting; andTommy does an astonishing amount of reclining. Lying down, while youwait to get started, is two-thirds of the Army's work. Directly theArmy begins to wait, Tommy relieves his aching back and shoulders ofequipment, and reclines. Quite right, too. There's no otherprofession in the world, where, with perfect dutifulness, you canspend so much time on your back. Active Service is two-partsInaction—"

What more of his views Monty would have expounded I can't say, for avoice yelled from the promenade-deck above us:

"You there! What's your rank?"

I jumped out of my skin, and Doe out of his, for we thought thevoice was addressing us, Monty turned without agitation and lookedup at the speaker. It was Major Hardy. He was leaning against thedeck-rail, and had fixed with his monocle the nearest recumbentsoldier. This soldier was just the other side of us, so the Majorwas obliged to shout over our heads.

"What's your rank?" he repeated. "Come along, my man. Get a move on.Jump to it. What's your rank?"

The Tommy, flurried by this surprise attack, climbed on to his feet,came to attention, and said:

"Inniskillings, sir."

"Damn the man—what," cried the Major. "What's your rank? Isaid."

"What, sir?" respectfully inquired the Tommy, whose powers ofapprehension had been disorganised by so sudden a raid.

The Major adopted two methods calculated to penetrate the soldier'sintelligence: he leant over the rail, and he spoke very slowly.

"What's—your—bloody—rank? Are you a general, or a private?"

"No, sir," answered the bewildered Tommy.

"Oh, God damn you to hell! What's your rank?"

"Oh, private, sir."

"Then, for Christ's sake, go and do some work. What are privatesfor? Get that kit of mine from the quay."

The Major dropped his monocle on his chest, and looked down at us.

"Sorry, padre," he said, and walked away.

I watched till he was out of sight, and then said indignantly:

"So he jolly well ought to have apologised."

"And he did," retorted Monty. "Be just to him. It took me sixmonths—"

"He's off," thought I.

"—to get the Army's bad language into proportion. At first I openedon it with my heavies in sermon after sermon. Then I saw proportion,and decided on a tariff, allowing an officer a 'damn' and a man a'bloody.' Winter and Neuve Chapelle taught me the rock-bottom levelon which we are fighting this war, and I spiked my guns. No one hasa right to condemn them, who hasn't floundered in mud undershell-fire."

I think that, after this, we dropped into silence, and watched thequay emptying itself of men, and the Rangoon's decks becoming moreand more crowded, as the day declined. The Embarkation waspractically complete. The Devonport Staff Officers wished us "a goodvoyage," and went home to their teas in Plymouth. And, just beforedinner, the gangway was hauled on to the quay. This was the finalact, for, though the ship was not yet moving, we had brokencommunication with England.

§2

At dinner, it being the first night afloat, the champagne corksbegan to pop, and the conversation to grow noisier and noisier. Bythe time the nutcrackers were busy, the more riotous subalterns hadreached that state of merriness, in which they found every distantpop of a cork the excuse for a fresh cheer and cries of "Takecover!"

Major Hardy, too, was beaming. He had sipped the best part of threebottles of champagne, and was feeling himself, multiplied by three.He assured Monty that the padres had been the most magnificentpeople of the war. He told three times the story of one who had diedgoing over the top with his men. That padre was a man. The men wouldhave followed him anywhere. For he was a man every inch of him. But,of course, the victim and hero of the war, said Major Hardy, lookingat Doe, myself, and the weary Jimmy Doon, was the junior subaltern.Everybody was prepared to take off his hat to the junior subaltern.He had died in greater numbers than any other rank. He had only justleft school, and yet he had led his men from in front. The Major, ifhe had fifty hats, would take them all off to the junior subaltern.His heart beat at one with the heart of the junior subaltern. And,steward, confound it, where was the drink-steward? There would bethe most awful bloody row, if he weren't looked after properly.

Dinner over, the riotous juniors rushed upstairs to the Officers'Lounge, a large room with a bar at one end, and a piano at theother. Some congregated near the bar to order liqueurs, while otherssurrounded the piano to roar rag-time choruses that one of theirnumber was playing. This artist had a whole manual of rag-timetunes, and seemed to have begun at Number One and decided to workthrough the collection. Each air was caught up and sung with moreenthusiasm than the last. And see, there was Major Hardy, leaningover the pianist that he might read the words through his monocle,and singing with the best of them: "Everybody's doing it—doingit—doing it," and "Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo."

The Spirit of Riot was aboard to-night. The wines of Heidsieck andVeuve Pommery glowed in the cheeks of the subalterns. It was thelast night in an English harbour, and what ho! for a rag. It was thefirst night afloat, and what ho! for a rough-house. And there wasElation in the air at the sight of Britain embarking for theDardanelles to teach the Turk what the Empire meant. So shout, mylads. "Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo."

Major Hardy was equal to any of them. He was the Master of theRevels. He had a big space cleared at one end of the lounge, andorganised a Rugby scrum. He arranged the sides, interlocked thesubalterns in the three-two-three formation, forced their heads downlike a master coaching boys, and, when he had given the word "Shovelike hell," ran round to the back of the scrum, got into it with hishead well down, and pushed to such purpose that the whole of theopposite side was rushed off its feet, and the scrum sent hurtlingacross the lounge. A few chairs were broken, as the scrimmagersswept like an avalanche over the room. Major Hardy was hot withsuccess. "A walk over! Absolutely ran them off their feet! Come andshove for them, you slackers," he shouted to those, who so far hadonly looked on and laughed. A score of fellows rushed to add theirweight to the defeated side, and another score to swell the pack ofthe victors. "That's the style," cried the Major. "There are onlyabout sixty of us in this scrum. Pack well down, boys. Not morethan twenty in the front row. Ball's in! Shove like blazes!" Into ithe got himself, and shoved—shoved till the scrum was rolled backacross the lounge; shoved till the side, which was being run off itsfeet, broke up in laughter, and was at once knocked down likeninepins by the rush of the winning forwards; shoved till his owncrowd fell over the prostrate forms of their victims, and collapsedinto a heap of humanity on to the floor.

Wiping his brow and whistling, he organised musical chairs; and,after musical chairs, co*ck-fighting. Already he was limping on oneknee, and his left eye was red and swollen. But he was enjoyinghimself so much that his enjoyment was infectious. To see him was tofeel that Life was a riotous adventure, and this planet of ours theliveliest of lively worlds. And really, in spite of all, I'm notsure that it isn't.

Doe and I with our hands in our pockets had contented ourselves withbeing onlookers. The high spirits of Major Hardy's disorderly mobwere radiating too much like electric waves through the room for usnot to be caught by an artificial spell of happiness. But neither ofus felt rowdy to-night. Monty, too, as he stood between us, lookedon and moralised.

"It's three parts Wine and seven parts Youth," he ruled (he wasalways giving a ruling on something), "so I'm three parts shockedand seven parts braced. But I say, Doe, we're a race to rejoice in.Look at these officers. Aren't they a bonny crowd? The horrible,pink Huns, with their round heads, cropped hair, and large necks,may have officers better versed in the drill-book. But no army inthe world is officered by such a lot of fresh sportsmen as ours.Come on deck."

When we got out into the warm air of a July evening, we found thatthe quay, which before dinner had been alongside the ship, wasfloating away from our port-quarter. Clearer thinking showed us thatit was the ship which was veering round, and not the shore. We werereally moving. The Rangoon was off for the Dardanelles. There wasno crowd to cheer us and wave white handkerchiefs; nothing but asilent, deserted dockyard—because of that policeman at the gate. Itwas only as we crept past a great cruiser, whose rails were crowdedwith Jack Tars, that cheers and banter greeted us.

"The Navy gives a send-off to the Army," said Doe; and the voice ofone of our Tommies shouted from the stern of the Rangoon:

"Bye-bye, Jack. We'll make a passage for you through themDardanelles."

"We will," whispered Monty.

"We will," echoed I.

Soon the Rangoon was past the cruiser and abreast of the sinisterlow hulls of the destroyers that were going to escort us out to sea.But here, to our surprise, the noise of an anchor's cable rattlingand racing away grated on our ears.

"She's dropping anchor till the morning," said Monty. "All right,then we'll sit down."

We placed hammock-chairs on a lonely part of the boat-deck. Ireclined on the right of Monty, and Doe took his chair and placed iton his left. Just as, in the old world behind the dockyard gates, hewould not have been satisfied unless he had been next to Radley, sonow he must contrive to have no one between himself and Monty.Meantime down in the lounge they seemed to have abandonedco*ck-fighting for music. A man was singing "Come to me, Thora," andhis voice modified by distance could be heard all over the ship. Therefrain was taken up by a hundred voices: "Come—come—come to me,Thora"; and, when the last note had been finished, the hundredperformers were so pleased with their effort that they burst intocheers and whistling and catcalls. It sounded like a distant jackalchorus.

Now that we were on deck, the spell, which the electric waves ofenjoyment had played on me in the lounge, was removed. Rather, anemptiness and a loneliness began to oppress me, only increased bythe rowdyism below.

"It's going to degenerate into a drunken brawl," I complained.

Monty turned and slapped me merrily on the knee. "Don't be so readyto think the worst of things," he said.

Something in the gathering darkness and the gathering sadness ofthis farewell evening made me communicative. I wanted to speak ofthings that were near my heart.

"I s'pose just nowadays I am thinking the worst of people. I'veseen so much evil since I've been in the army that my opinion ofmankind has sunk to zero."

"So's mine," murmured Doe.

"And mine has gone up and up and up with all that I've seen in thearmy," said Monty, speaking with some solemnity. "I never knew tillI joined the army that there were so many fine people in the world.I never knew there was so much kindliness and unselfishness in theworld. I never knew men could suffer so cheerfully. I never knewhumanity could reach such heights."

We remained silent and thinking.

"Good heavens!" continued Monty. "There's beauty in what's going onin the lounge. Can't you see it? These boys, a third of them, haveonly a month or more in which to sing. Some of them will never seeEngland again. And all know it, and none thinks about it. Grantedthat a few of them are flushed with wine, but, before God, I'velearnt to forgive the junior subaltern everything—

"Everything," he added, with passionate conviction.

Doe turned in his seat towards Monty. I knew what my friend wasfeeling, because I was feeling the same. These words had a personalapplication and were striking home.

"What do you mean by 'everything'?" asked Doe, after looking roundto see that the deck was deserted. "Just getting tight?"

"I said 'everything,'" answered Monty deliberately. "I learnt to doit out in France. What's the position of the junior subaltern outthere? Under sentence of death, and lucky if he gets a reprieve. Thetemptation to experience everything while they can must be prettysubtle. I don't say it's right—" Monty furrowed his forehead, as aman does who is trying to think things out—"To say I would forgiveit is to admit that it's wrong, but ah! the boy-officer's been sogrand, and so boyishly unconscious of his grandeur all the time. Iremember one flighty youth, who sat down on the firing-step thenight before he had to go over the top, and wrote a simple letter toeverybody he'd cared for. He wrote to his father, saying: 'Ifthere's anything in my bank, I'd like my brother to have it. But, ifthere's a deficit, I'm beastly sorry.' Think of him putting histin-pot house in order like that. He was—he was blown to pieces inthe morning....

"They found he had £60 to his credit. It wouldn't have been there aweek, if the young spendthrift had known."

It was now dark enough for the stars and the lights of England andthe glow in our pipe-bowls to be the most visible things.

"Go on," said Doe. "You're thrilling me."

"I remember another coming to me just before the assault, andhanding me a sealed letter addressed to his mother. What he said wasa lyric poem, but, as usual, he didn't know it. He just muttered:'Padre, you might look after this: I may not get an opportunity ofposting it.' So English that! A Frenchman would have put his hand onhis heart and exclaimed: 'I die for France and humanity.' Thisreserved English child said: 'I may not get an opportunity ofposting it.' My God, they're wonderful!"

Monty stared across the stream at the thousand lights of Devonportand Plymouth. He was listening to the voices in the lounge singing:"When you come to the end of a perfect day"; and he waited to hearthe song through, before he pursued:

"There was one youngster who, the morning of an attack, gave me along envelope. He said: 'I'll leave this with you, padre. It'smy—it's my—' And he laughed. Laughed, mind you. You see, he wasshy of the word 'will'; it seemed so silly...."

Monty stopped; and finally added:

"Neither did that boy know he was a Poem."

"Go on," said Doe, "I could listen all night."

"It's a lovely night, isn't it?" admitted Monty. "Inspires one tosee only the Beauty there is in everything. Isn't there Beauty inMajor Hardy's black eye?"

"It's a Poem—what," laughed Doe.

"You may laugh, but that's just what it is. He said that his heartbeat at one with the heart of a junior subaltern; and it does thatbecause it's the heart of a boy. And the heart of a boy is matterfor a poem."

"By Jove," said Doe, "you seem to be in love with all the world."

"So I am," Monty conceded, pleased with Doe's poetic phrase; "andwith the young world in particular."

"I think I could be that too," began Doe—

Doe was carrying on the conversation with ease. I left it to him,for these words were winning eternity in my memory: "I could forgivethem everything." With a sense of loneliness, and that I had lost myanchor in those last days of the old world, I felt that one day Iwould unburden myself to Monty. I would like an anchor again, Ithought. The same idea must have been possessing Doe, for he wassaying:

"Somehow I could forgive everything to those fellows you've beentelling us about, but I'm blowed if I can forgive myselfeverything."

And here Monty, with the utmost naturalness, as though so deep aquestion flowed necessarily from what had gone before, asked:

"Have you everything to be forgiven?"

It is wonderful the questions that will be asked and the answersthat will be given under the stars.

Doe looked out over the water, and moved his right foot to and fro.Then he drew his knee up and clasped it with both hands.

"Everything," he said, rather softly.

And, when I heard him say that, I felt I was letting him take blamethat I ought to share with him. So I added simply:

"It's the same with both of us."

Monty held his peace, but his eyes glistened in the starlight. Ithink he was happy that we two boys had been drawn to him, asinevitably as needles to a magnet. At last he said:

"I suppose we ought to turn in now. But promise me you'll continuethis talk to-morrow, if it's another lovely night like this."

"Surely," assented Doe, as we arose and folded up the chairs.

"I hope when we wake we shan't be out at sea," suggested I, "for Iwant to watch old England receding into the distance."

Monty looked at me and smiled.

"Rupert," he said, and it was like him to use my Christian namewithout as much as a "by your leave" within the first dozen hours ofour acquaintance, "you're one of them."

"One of whom?"

"One of those to whom I could forgive everything. You both are. Goodnight, Rupert. Good night, Edgar."

CHAPTER III

"C. OF E., NOW AND ALWAYS"

§1

Awaking at 5.30 the next morning, I heard a noise as of the anchor'scable being hauled in. The engines, too, were throbbing, andoverhead there were rattling and movement. I tumbled Doe out of histop bunk, telling him to get up and see the last of England.Slipping a British warm over my blue silk pyjamas—mother alwaysmade me wear pale blue—I went on deck. Doe covered his pink-stripedpyjamas with a grey silk kimono embroidered with flowers—the chanceof wearing which garment reconciled him to this cold and earlyrising—and followed me sleepily. In a minute we were leaning overthe deck-rails, and watching the sea, as it raced past the ship'shull.

Our Rangoon was really off now. As we left Devonport, two devilishlittle destroyers gave us fifty in the hundred, caught us up, andpassed us, before we were in the open sea. Then they waited for uslike dogs who have run ahead of their master, and finally took uppositions one on either side of us. We felt it was now a poor lookout for all enemy submarines.

"Well, ta-ta, England," said Doe, looking towards a long strip ofDevon and Cornwall. "See, there, Rupert? Falmouth's there somewhere.In a year's time I'll be back, with you as my guest. We'll have thegreat times over again. We'll go mackerel-fishing, when the wind isfresh. We'll put a sail on the Lady Fal, and blow down the breezeon the estuary. We'll—"

"And when's all this to be?" broke in a languid voice. We turned andsaw our exhausted young table companion, Jimmy Doon, who had arrivedon deck, yawning, to assume the duties of Officer on SubmarineWatch.

"After the war, sure," answered Doe.

Mr. Doon looked pained at such folly.

"My tedious lad," he said, "do I gather that you are in thecavalry?"

"You do not, Jimmy," said Doe.

"Nor yet in the artillery?"

"No, Jimmy."

"Then I conceive you to be in the infantry."

"You conceive aright, Jimmy."

"Well, then, don't be an unseemly ass. There'll be no 'after thewar' for the infantry."

"In that case," laughed Doe, who had been offensively classical,ever since he won the Horace Prize, "Ave, atque vale, England."

After gazing down the wake of the Rangoon a little longer, wedecided that England was finished with, and returned to our cabinsto dress in silence. And then, having read through twice thedirections provided with Mothersill's Sea-sick Remedy, we went downto breakfast.

At this meal the chief entertainment was the arrival of Major Hardy,limping from injuries sustained the previous night, and with an eyethe colour of a Victoria plum. "The old sport!" whispered thesubalterns. And that's just what he was; for he was a major, whocould run amok like any second lieutenant, and he was forty, if aday.

In the afternoon, when the sea was very lonely, the destroyers leftus, which we thought amazingly thin of them. So we searched outJimmy Doon, and told him that, as Officer on Submarine Watch, heought to swim alongside in their place.

Jimmy was much aggrieved, it appeared, at being detailed for thetiresome duty of looking for submarines. It was the unseemly limit,he said, to watch all day for a periscope, and it would be the verydevil suddenly to see one. Besides, he had hoped that by losing hisdraft of men he would be freed from all duties, and a passenger fora fortnight. He would have just sat down, and drawn his pay. As itwas, he assured us, he hadn't the faintest idea what to do if heshould sight a submarine—whether to shoot it, or tell the skipper.He was nervous lest in his excitement he should shoot the skipper.At any rate, he had a firing-party of twenty in the bows, and wasdetermined to shoot someone, if he spotted a periscope. And,moreover, the whole thing made him tediously homesick, and he wantedhis mother.

He was mouching off quite sad and sulky about it all, when theship's clock pointed to 4 p.m. (and no one ever argues with a ship'sclock), eight bells rang out, and all the junior officers wereimpressed into a lecture on Turkey—even including Jimmy Doon, whothought that his important duties ought to have secured himexemption from such an ordeal. The lecturer was Major Hardy, who,being a man of the wanderlust, had planted in Assam, done some shadygun-running in Mexico, fought for one, or both, or all sides in thelate Balkan War, and sauntered, with a hammock to hang under thetrees, in all parts of Turkey, Anatolia, and the Ottoman world. Helimped to the lecturer's table, in the lounge, and, holding hismonocle in his hand from the first word to the last, delivered adiscourse of which this was the gist:

Before Christmas we should be in Constantinople—what. (Laughter,rather at the what than at the substance of the sentence.) He wasconfident the Dardanelles would be conquered any day now, and wishedthe ship would go a bit faster, so that we should not be too late tomiss all the fun. (Hear, hear.) The only thing that was holding upour army at Cape Helles was the hill of Achi Baba. Now he had stoodon Achi Baba and looked down upon the Straits at that point wherethey became the silver Narrows: and he knew that old Achi was a weepimple, which he could capture before breakfast, given a fightingcrowd of blaspheming heathens, like those he saw before him. (Loudcheers.) When we penetrated Turkey, we were to understand that theTurk with a beard was a teetotaller, like himself, Major Hardy.(Cheers.) We were never to kick a dog in Turkey—what (laughter),and, above all, never to raise our eyes to a Turkish woman, whetherveiled or not, if we would keep our lives worth the value of a tramticket. "One thinks," he concluded, "of the crowd of susceptibleTommies reclining on the decks outside, and fears the worst." (Loudlaughter, cheers, and Jimmy Doon's weary voice: "Good-bye-ee.")

§2

So the first afternoon at sea declined into evening. I had beenlooking forward all day to the starlight night, in which we shoulddiscuss again with Monty the things that had crept into ourconversation the night before. I had gone to bed, happy in thethought that the breastworks had been broken down, and the way madeeasier for further unburdening. I had fallen asleep, contented inthe conviction that Monty had been sent into my life to help me toput things straight. In my simple theology, I was pleased to imagineI saw how God was working. Somewhere in that old world behind thedockyard lay my shattered ideals, shattered morals, shatteredreligion. Monty was to rebuild my faith in humanity and in God. Somewhere in that rosy year which was past lay the anchor that I hadcast away. Monty was to find me drifting to the Dardanelles with noanchor aboard, and to give me one that would hold. Yes, I saw aruling Hand. Radley had been the great influence of my schooldays;and, now that he was fast fading into the memories of a remote past,Monty, this lean and whimsical priest, had stepped in to fill thestage. The story of our spiritual development must ever be the storyof other people's influence over us. I could see it all, and went tosleep lonely but happy.

It is difficult to say why I wanted to set my life aright. Thethought of my mother; the peaceful movement of the ship away fromEngland; Monty's stories of his lovable boy officers; and the beautyof the seascape—all had something to do with it. At any rate, Ifound myself longing for the time when, after dinner, Doe and I,with Monty between us, should recline in deck-chairs under thestars, and speak of intimate things.

When the time came, it was very dark, for deck-lamps were notallowed, and every port-hole was obscured, so that no chink of lightshould betray our whereabouts to a prowling submarine. We began bystar-gazing. Then we brought eyes and faces downwards, and watchedthe wide, rippling sea. Monty, having refilled his pipe on hisknees, lit it with some difficulty in the gentle wind, before heremembered that, after dark, smoking was forbidden on deck. Thematch flared up, and illuminated the world alarmingly.... Welistened for the torpedo.

Nothing evil coming from the darkness, Monty knocked out theforbidden tobacco, and placed an empty pipe between his teeth.

"I suppose you fellows know," he said, "that we've got a daily Masson board."

"What's that?" asked Doe.

Monty removed his pipe and gazed with affected horror at hisquestioner. Certainly he would hold forth now.

"Bah!" he began, but he changed it with quick generosity to "Ahwell, ah well, ah well! I know the sort of religion you'veenjoyed—and, for that matter, adorned. It's a wonderful creed! Havea bath every morning, and go to church with your people. It savesyou from bad form, but can't save you from vice."

Doe moved slightly in his chair, as one does when a dentist touchesa nerve. Monty stopped, and then added:

"'A daily Mass' is my short way of saying 'A daily celebration ofthe Holy Communion.'"

"Heavens!" thought I. "He's an R.C."

I felt as though I had lost a friend. Doe, however, was quicker inappraising the terrible facts.

"I s'pose you're a High Churchman," he said; and I've little doubtthat he thereupon made up his mind to be a High Churchman too. Montygroaned. He placed in front of Doe his left wrist on which wasclasped a bracelet identity disc. He switched on to the disc a shaftof light from an electric torch, and we saw engraved on it his nameand the letters "C.E."

"That's what I am, Gazelle," said he, as the light went out, "C. ofE., now and always."

("Gazelle" was ostensibly a silly play on my friend's name, but,doubtless, Doe's sleek figure and brown eyes, which had made thename of "The Grey Doe" so appropriate, inspired Monty to style him"Gazelle.")

"C. of E.," muttered I, audibly. "What a relief!"

"You beastly, little, supercilious snob!" exclaimed Monty, who waseasily the rudest man I have ever met.

I didn't mind him calling me "little," for he so overtopped meintellectually that in his presence I never realised that I hadgrown tall. I felt about fourteen.

"You beastly, little, intolerant, mediæval humbug. I suppose youthink 'C. of E.' is the only respectable thing to be. And yet yourC. of E.-ism hasn't—" He stopped abruptly, as if he had justarrested himself in a tactless remark.

"Go on," I said.

"And yet your religion," he continued gently, "hasn't proved much ofa vital force in your life, has it? Didn't it go to pieces at thefirst assault of the world?"

"I s'pose it did," I confessed humbly.

"Shall I tell you the outstanding religious fact of the war?" askedhe. "Let me recover my breath which your unspeakable friend here putout by calling me a 'High Churchman,' and then I'll begin. It beginseighty years ago."

So Monty began the great story of the Catholic movement in theChurch of England. He told us of Keble and Pusey; he made heroes forus of Father Mackonochie dying amongst his dogs in the Scotch snows,and of Father Stanton, whose coffin was drawn through London on abarrow. He knew how to capture the interest and sympathy of boyminds. At the end of his stories about the heroes and martyrs of theCatholic movement, though we hadn't grasped the theology of it, yetwe knew we were on the side of Keble and Pusey, Mackonochie andStanton. We would have liked to be sent to prison for wearingvestments.

"But hang the vestments!" cried Monty in his vigorous way. "Hang thecottas, the candles, and the incense! What the Catholic movementreally meant was the recovery for our Church of England—God blessher—of the old exalted ideas of the Mass and of the great practiceof private confession. 'What we want,' said the Catholic movement,'is the faith of St. Augustine of Canterbury, and of St. Aidan ofthe North; the faith of the saints who built the Church of England,and not the faith of Queen Elizabeth, nor even of the Pope ofRome.'"

We thought this very fine, and Doe, who generally carried on theseconversations while I was silent, inquired what exactly this faithmight be, which was neither Protestantism nor Romanism.

"Rehearse the articles of my belief, eh?" laughed Monty. "Well, Ibelieve in the Mass, and I believe in confession, and I believe thatwhere you've those, you've everything else."

"And what's the outstanding fact of the war?" asked Doe.

"The outstanding fact of my experience at least, Gazelle, has beenthe astonishing loyalty to his chaplains and his church of thatawful phenomenon, the young High Church fop, the ecclesiasticalyouth. He has known what his chaplains are for, and what they cangive him; he hasn't needed to be looked up and persuaded to do hisreligious duties, but has rather looked up his chaplains andpersuaded them to do theirs—confound his impudence! He has got upearly and walked a mile for his Mass. His faith, for all itsfoppery, has stood four-square."

Monty started to relight his pipe, forgetting again in hisenthusiasm all routine orders. He tossed the match away, and added:

"Yes: and there's another whose religion is vital—the extremeProtestant. He's a gem! I disagree with him on every point, and Ilove him."

Monty held the floor. We were content to wait in silence for him tocontinue. He looked at a bright star and murmured, as if thinkingaloud:

"Out there—out there the spike has come into his own."

"What's a spike?" interrupted Doe, intent on learning his part.

"They called those High Church boys who before the war could talk ofnothing but cottas and candles, 'spikes.' They were a bitinsufferable. But, by Jove, they've had to do without all thosepretty ornaments out there, and they've proved that they had thereal thing. My altar has generally been two ration boxes, marked'Unsweetened Milk,' but the spike has surrounded it. And, look here,Gazelle, the spike knows how to die. He just asks for his absolutionand his last sacrament, and—and dies."

There was silence again. All we heard was the ship chopping alongthrough the dark sea, and distant voices in the saloons below. Andwe thought of the passing of the spike, shriven, and with food forhis journey.

"And what are we to believe about the Mass?" asked Doe, who, deeplyinterested, had turned in his chair towards Monty.

Monty told us. He told us things strange for us to hear. We were tobelieve that the bread and wine, after consecration, were the sameHoly Thing as the Babe of Bethlehem; and we could come to Mass, notto partake, but to worship like the shepherds and the magi; andthere, and there only, should we learn how to worship. He told usthat the Mass was the most dramatic service in the world, for it wasthe acting before God of Calvary's ancient sacrifice; and under theshadow of that sacrifice we could pray out all our longings and allour loneliness.

"Now, come along to daily Mass," he pleaded. "Just come and see howthey work out, these ideas of worshipping like the shepherds and ofkneeling beneath the shadow of a sacrifice. You'll find the earlyhalf-hour before the altar the happiest half-hour of the day. You'llfind your spiritual recovery there. It'll be your healing spring."

Turning with the Monty suddenness to Doe, he proved by his nextwords how quickly he had read my friend's character.

"You boys are born hero-worshippers," he said. "And there's nothingthat warm young blood likes better than to do homage to its hero,and mould itself on its hero's lines. In the Mass you simply bow theknee to your Hero, and say: 'I swear fealty. I'm going to mouldmyself on you.'"

He had not known Edgar Doe forty-eight hours, but he had hismeasure.

"All right," said Doe, "I'll come."

"Tell us about the other thing, confession," I suggested.

"Not now, Rupert. 'Ye are babes,' and I've fed you with milk.Confession'll come, but it's strong meat for you yet."

"I don't know," demurred I.

Monty's face brightened, as the fact of one who sees the dawn ofvictory. But Doe, though his whole nature moved him to be apicturesque High Churchman, yet, because he wanted Monty to thinkwell of him, drew up abruptly at the prospect of a detailedconfession.

"You'll never get me to come to confession," he laughed,"never—never—never."

"My dear Gazelle, don't be silly," rejoined Monty. "I'll have youwithin the week."

"You won't!"

"I will! Oh, I admit I'm out to win you two. I want to prove thatthe old Church of England has everything you public schoolboys need,and capture you and hold you. I want all the young blood for her. Iwant to prove that you can be the pride of the Church of England.And I'll prove it. I'll prove it on this ship."

Whether he proved it, I can't say. I am only telling a tale of whathappened. I dare say that, if instead of Monty, the Catholic, somemilitant Protestant had stepped at this critical moment into ourlives, full of enthusiasm for his cause and of tales of theProtestant martyrs, he would have won us to his side, and provided adifferent means of spiritual recovery. I don't know.

For the tale I'm telling is simply this: that in these moments, whenevery turn of the ship's screw brought us nearer Gibraltar, the gateof the Great Sea, and God alone knew what awaited us in theGallipoli corner of that Mediterranean arena, came Padre Monty,crashing up to us with his Gospel of the saints. It was the idealmoment for a priest to do his priestly work, and bring our MotherChurch to our side. And Monty failed neither her nor us.

CHAPTER IV

THE VIGIL

§1

Night or day, the ship ploughed remorselessly on. It was steered abewildering zigzag course to outwit the submarines. The second dayof the voyage saw us in the Bay of Biscay, a hundred miles off CapeFinisterre. The sun got steadily hotter, and the sea bluer.

And the subalterns blessed the sun, because it gave them an excusefor putting on the white tennis-flannels which they had brought fordeck wear. All honest boys, we know, fancy themselves in theirwhites. And the mention of their deck-flannels reminds me, strangelyenough, of Monty's daily masses. It was evident from the attendanceat these quiet little services that he had been busy persuadingother young officers to see "how it worked."

Every morning the smoking room was equipped with a little altar thatsupported two lighted candles. And to this chapel there wandered,morning after morning, stray and rather shy young subalterns, whoknelt "beneath the shadow," occupied with their own thoughts, whileCalvary's ancient sacrifice was acted before God.

Monty had formed a dozen subalterns into a guild of servers. And onthese sun-baked mornings he would insist that his servers shouldkneel at their place beside the altar in their white sportingattire. "His Mass," said he, "was meant to be mixed up with theweek-day play."

It was all quiet—in fact, ever so quiet. Outside on the deck therewould be noises, and in the alley-way there would be bangings ofcabin-doors, and voices calling for the bath steward. But thesethings only intensified the quiet of the smoking room. Monty wouldkeep his voice very low, loud enough to be heard by those whowished to follow him, and soft enough not to interrupt those whopreferred to pursue their private devotions.

Whether he was right in all that he did and taught, or was only ajoyous rebel, better theologians than I must determine. He was atleast right in this: the attraction of that early morning servicewas irresistible. I began to look forward to it. I enjoyed it. Whenmy comfortable bunk pulled strongly, and I was too lazy to get up, Iwould feel all day a sense of having missed something. I had neverbeen able to pray anywhere else so easily as I prayed there. I hadnever before understood the satisfaction of worship.

Monty soon found that the only enemy who could beat him and preventa swelling attendance of Youth at the Mass, was Cosy Bed. C.B., ashe contemptuously called him, was most powerful at 7.0 in themorning. Padre Monty would not have been Padre Monty, had he failedto declare war on the foe at once. He drew up a "Waking List" of hisfamily (for he had adopted everybody on the ship under 25), and eachmorning went his rounds, visiting a score of cabins, where the"children" slept. He burst upon them unceremoniously, and threw openthe darkened port-holes to let the sunlight in. For the sunlight,like all bright things, was on the side of the Mass.

Of course it was only a minority, at best, who thus bowed theiryoung heads to the Mass. The rest remained gentiles without the Law.And Monty's undismayed comment was characteristic of him. "I say,Rupert," he said, coolly assuming that I was his partner in thework, "We've only a few at present, our apostolic few. But don't youlove these big, handsome boys, who will not come to church?"

One immortal Friday fully forty wandered in to Mass. Monty wasradiant. Immediately after the service he said to me: "Come on deck,and have a game of quoits-tennis before breakfast. Mass first, thentennis—that's as it should be." We went on deck, and, having fixedthe rope that acted as a net, played a hard game. And, when thefirst game was finished, Monty, still flushed with his victory downin the smoking room, came and looked at me over the high interveningrope, much as a horse looks over a wall, and proceeded to holdforth:

"D'you remember that picture, 'The Vigil,' Rupert, where a knightis kneeling with his sword before the altar, being consecrated forthe work he has in hand? Well, this voyage is the vigil for thesefellows. Before they step ashore, they shall kneel in front of thesame altar, and seek a blessing on their swords. Hang it! aren'tthey young knights setting out on perilous work? And I'll prove wehave a Church still, and an Altar, and a Vigil."

Then he asked me what I was stopping for and talking about, and whyI didn't get on with the game. His spirits were irrepressible.

§2

After tea, on the fourth day, everyone hurried to the boat-deck, forland was on our port side. There to our left, looking like a long,riftless cloud bank, lay a pale-washed impression of the coast ofSpain. A little town, of which every building seemed a dead white,could be distinguished on the slope of a lofty hill. There was along undulation of mountainous country, and a promontory that wewere told was Cape Trafalgar.

I should have kept my eyes fixed on this, my first view of SunnySpain, if there had not been excited talk of another land looming onthe starboard side. Looking quickly that way, I made out the greywraith of a continent, and realised that, for the first time, DarkAfrica had crept, with becomingly mysterious silence, into my rangeof vision.

Doe let his field-glasses drop, and stared dreamily at the beautifulpicture, which was being given us, as we approached in the fall of asummer day towards the famous Straits of Gibraltar. Not long,however, could his reverie last, for Jimmy Doon poked him in theribs and said:

"Wake up. Do you grasp the fact that you are just about to gothrough the gate of the Mediterranean, and you'll be damned lucky ifyou ever come out through it again? It's like going through theentrance of the Colosseum to the lions. It's both tedious andunseemly."

"Oh, get away, Jimmy," retorted Doe, "you spoil the view. Look,Rupert—don't look out of the bows all the time; turn round and lookastern, if you want to see a glorious sunset."

I turned. We were steering due east, so the disc of the sun, thisstill evening, was going down behind our stern. The sea maintained ahue of sparkling indigo, while the sun encircled itself withwidening haloes of gold and orange. The vision was so gorgeous thatI turned again to see its happy effect upon the coast of Spain, andfound that the long strip of land had become apple pink. Meanwhile Iwas aware that my hands and all my exposed flesh had a covering ofsticky moisture, the outcome of a damp wind blowing from grey andmelancholy Africa.

"The sirocco," said someone, and foretold a heavy mist with thenight.

It happened so. The darkness had scarcely succeeded the highlycoloured sunset before the raucous booming of the fog-horn soundedfrom the ship's funnel, and the whole vessel was surrounded with athick mist—African breath again—which, laden with damp, lefteverything superficially wet. The mist continued, and the darknessdeepened, as we went through the Straits. The siren boomedintermittently, and Gibraltar, invisible, flashed Morse messages inlong and short shafts of light on the thick, moist atmosphere. Toadd to the eerie effect of it all, a ship's light was hung upon themast, and cast yellow rays over the fog-damp.

"Beastly shame," grumbled Doe, looking into the opaque darkness, "weshan't see the Rock this trip through. Never mind, we'll see it onthe homeward route."

"Per-haps," corrected Jimmy Doon.

Thus we went through the gate into the Mediterranean theatre, wherethe big battle for those other Straits was being fought. We left thefog behind us, as we got into wider seas, and steamed into a hotMediterranean night.

§3

Oh, it was torrid. Ere we came on deck for our talk with Monty underthe stars, we had changed into our coolest things. And now, awaitinghis arrival, I lolled in my deck-chair, clothed in my Cambridge bluesleeping-suit, and Doe lay with his pink stripes peeping frombeneath the grey embroidered kimono.

It had become a regular practice, our nightly talk with Monty onwhat he called "Big Things." Certainly he did most of the talking.But his ideas were so new and illuminating, and he opened up suchundreamed-of vistas of thought, that we were pleased to lie lazilyand listen.

"What's it to be to-night?" he began, as he walked up to us; but hesuddenly saw our pyjama outfit, and was very rude about it, callingus "popinjays," and "degenerate æsthetes." "My poor boys," he summedup, as he dropped into the chair, which we had thoughtfully placedbetween us for his judgment throne, "you can't help it, but you're apublic nuisance and an offence against society. What's it to beto-night?"

"Tell us about confession," I said, and curled myself up to listen.

"Right," agreed Monty.

"But wait," warned Doe. "You're not going to get me to come toconfession. I value your good opinion too highly."

"My dear Gazelle, don't be absurd. I'll have your promise to-night."

"You won't!"

"I will! Here goes."

And Monty opened with a preliminary bombardment in which, in hisshattering style, he fired at us every argument that ever has beenadduced for private confession—"the Sacrament of Penance," as hestartled us by calling it. The Bible was poured out upon us. Thedoctrine and practice of the Church came hurtling after. Thensuddenly he threw away theological weapons, and launched aspecialised attack on each of us in turn, obviously suiting hiswords to his reading of our separate characters. He turned on me,and said:

"You see, Rupert. Confession is simply the consecration of your ownnatural instinct—the instinct to unburden yourself to one who waitswith love and a gift of forgiveness—the instinct to have someone inthe world who knows exactly all that you are. You realise that youare utterly lonely, as long as you are acting a part before all theworld. But your loneliness goes when you know of at least one towhom you stand revealed."

As he said it, my whole soul seemed to answer "Yes."

"It's so," he continued. "Christianity from beginning to end is theconsecration of human instincts."

So warmed up was he to his subject that he brought out his nextarguments like an exultant player leading honour after honour from ahand of trumps. He slapped me triumphantly on the knee, and broughtout his ace:

"The Christ-idea is the consecration of the instinct to have avisible, tangible hero for a god."

Again he slapped me on the knee, and said:

"The Mass is the consecration of the instinct to have a place and atime and an Objective Presence, where one can touch the hem of Hisgarment and worship."

That was his king. He emphasised his final argument on my knee moretriumphantly than ever.

"And confession is the consecration of the instinct to unburden yoursoul; to know that you are not alone in your knowledge of yourself;to know that at a given moment, by a definite sacrament, your sinsare blotted away, as though they had never been."

His victorious contention, by its very impulse, carried its coloursinto my heart. I yielded to his conviction that CatholicChristianity held all the honours. But I fancy I had wanted tocapitulate, before ever the attack began.

"By Jove," I said. "I never saw things like that before."

"Of course you didn't," he snapped.

Having broken through my front, he was re-marshalling his argumentsinto a new formation, ready to bear down upon Doe, when thatspirited youth, who alone did any counter-attacking, assumed theinitiative, and assaulted Monty with the words:

"It's no good. If I made my confession to a priest who'd been myfriend, I'd never want to see him again for shame. I'd run round thecorner, if he appeared in the street."

"On the contrary," said Monty, "you'd run to meet him. You'd knowthat you were dearer to him than you could possibly have been, ifyou had never gone to him in confession. You'd know that yourrelations after the sacred moment of confession were more intimatethan ever before."

I saw Doe's defence crumbling beneath this attack. I knew he wouldinstantly want these intimate relations to exist between Monty andhimself. Monty, subtly enough, had borne down on that part of Doe'smake-up which was most certain to give way—his yieldingaffectionateness.

And, while Doe remained silent and thoughtful, Monty attacked with anew weight of argument at a fresh point—Doe's love of the heroic.

"Don't you think," he asked, "that, if you've gone the whole waywith your sins, it's up to a sportsman to go the whole way with hisconfession. And anybody knows that it's much more difficult toconfess to God through a priest than in the privacy of one's ownroom. It's difficult, but it's the grand thing; and so it appeals toan heroic nature more."

"Yes, I see that," assented Doe.

Monty said nothing further for awhile, as if hoping we would declareour decision without any prompting from him. But we were shy andsilent; and at last he asked:

"Well, what's the decision?"

"I'll come to you," I said, "if you'll show me how to do it all."

He replied nothing. I believe he was too happy to speak. Then heturned to Doe.

"Gazelle, what about you?"

And Doe said one of those engaging things that only he could utter:

"I imagine I ought to do it for love of Our Lord. But s'posing Iknow that isn't the real motive—s'posing I feel that someone hasbeen sent into my life to put it right, and I do it rather for—forhim?"

There Monty was beaten. Doe's meaning was too plain; and the richprize it threw at Monty's feet too overwhelming. The only answer hecould give was: "You must try and link it to love for the HigherOne."

"All right," said Doe, simply. "I'll try."

A silence of unusual length followed. The noise of the ship goingthrough the water, and the beat of the engines, assumed the monopolyof sound. Doe and I were thinking of the thorny and troublesome pathof confession, which in a few days we must traverse. And Montyindicated what his thoughts were by the remark with which heprepared to close that night's conversation under the stars.

"The two cardinal dogmas of my faith are—"

"The Mass and confession," I volunteered, in a flash of impudence.

"Don't interrupt, you rude little cub. They are these. Just as thereis more beauty in nature than ugliness, so there is more goodness inhumanity than evil, and more happiness in the world than sorrow....

"Now and then one is allowed a joy that would outweigh years ofdisappointment. You two pups have given me one of those joysto-night. It's my task to make this voyage your Vigil; and a perfectVigil. It's all inexpressibly dear to me. I'm going to send you downthe gangway when you go ashore to this crusade—properly absolved byyour Church. I'm going to send you into the fight—white."

CHAPTER V

PENANCE

§1

Upon the rail leaned Doe and I watching the waves break away fromthe ship. It was morning, and we were troubled—troubled over theawful difficulty of making our life confession on the morrow. Montyhad given much pains to preparing us. He had sat with each under theawning on sunny days, and told him how to do it. We were to divideour lives into periods: our childhood, our schooldays, and our lifein the army. We were to search each period carefully, and note downon a single sheet of writing-paper the sins that we must confess.But, wanting to do it thoroughly, I had already reached my ninthsheet. And I was still only at the beginning of my schooldays. I hadacknowledged this to Monty, who smiled kindly, and said: "It is aVia Dolorosa, isn't it? But carry on. For the joy that is setbefore you, endure the cross."

"It was easy enough," complained Doe, "to say frankly 'everything'when he asked us what we had to confess; but, when you've got to gointo details, it's the limit. I wish I were dead. Monty gave me along list of questions for self-examination, and I had to go backand ask him for more. They didn't nearly cover all I'd done."

I couldn't help smiling.

"Yes," proceeded Doe, "Monty laughed too, and said: 'Don't getrattled. You're one of the best, and proving it every moment.' Andthat brings me to my other difficulty. Rupert, all my life I've donethings for my own glory; and I did want to make this confession aperfect thing, free from wrong motives like that. But you've no ideahow self-glorification has eaten into me. I find myself hoping Montywill say mine is the best life confession he has ever heard. Isn'tit awful?" He sighed and murmured: "I wonder if I shall ever do anabsolutely perfect thing."

Such a character as Doe's must ever love to unrobe itself before afriend; and he continued:

"No, I know my motives are mixed with wrong. For example, I don'tbelieve I should do this, if some other chaplain, instead of Monty,had asked me to do it. And your saying you'd do it had much too muchto do with my consenting. But I am trying to do it properly. And,after turning my life inside out, I've come to the conclusion thatI'm a bundle of sentiment and self-glorification. The only goodthing that I can see in myself is that where I love I give myselfutterly. It's awful."

So, you see, in these words did Doe admit that the dog-likedevotion, which he had once given to Radley, was transferred toMonty. In my own less intense way I felt the same thing. Radley hadbecome remote, and ceased to be a force in our lives; Monty reignedin his stead. We were boys; and what's the use of pretending? Aboy's affection is not eternal.

Of Doe's confession I can relate no more. It withdraws itself into aprivacy. I can but tell you the tale of my own experience.

§2

Monty's cabin was to be his confessional. I was to go to him earlythe next morning, as I had been detailed for Submarine Watch for theremainder of the day.

I approached his door, stimulating myself for the ordeal by saying"In half an hour I shall have told all, and the thing will be done."A certain happiness fought in my mind against my shrinking fromself-humiliation. Two moods wrestled in me; the one said: "Thelong-dreaded moment is on you"; the other said: "The eagerly awaitedmoment has come."

I found Monty ready for me, robed in a surplice and violet stole. Infront of the place where I was to kneel was a crucifix.

"Kneel there," said Monty, "and, if necessary, look at that. Hewas so much a man like us that He kept the glory that was set beforeHim as a motive for enduring the cross."

I knelt down. Nervousness suddenly possessed me, and my voicetrembled, as I read the printed words:

"Father, give me thy blessing, for I have sinned."

Then nervousness left me. The scene became very calm. It seemed tobe taking place somewhere out of the world. The worldly relations ofthe two taking part in it changed as in a transfiguration. I ceasedto think of Monty as a lively friend. He had become a statelypriest, and I a penitent. He had become a father, and I a child.

With a quiet deliberateness that surprised me, I said the"Confiteor," and accused myself of the long catalogue of sins that Ihad prepared. It was almost mechanical. Such merit as there may havebeen in my exhaustive confession must have lain in what conqueringof obstacles I achieved before I came to my knees in Monty'spresence, because I was conscious of no meritorious effort then. Itwas as if I had battled against a running current, and had at lastgot into the stream; for now, as I spoke in the confessional, I wasjust floating without exertion down the current.

When I had finished, Monty sat without saying a word. I kept my facein my hands, and waited for the counsel that he would offer.

He gave me the very thing that my opening manhood was craving; oneclear and lofty ideal. I had felt blindly for it that far-off timewhen, as a small boy, the recollection of my grandfather's words:"That Rupert, the best of the lot," had lifted me out of cheatingand lies. I had aspired towards it, but had not seen it, thatevening outside Kensingtowe's baths. I had seen it hazily that daythe old Colonel spoke of our Youth and our High Calling.

And now Monty set the vision in front of me. I was to see threeideals, Goodness, Truth, and Beauty, and merge them all in onevision—Beauty. For Goodness was only beauty in morals, and Truthwas only beauty in knowledge. And I was to overcome my sins, not bynegatively fighting against them when they were hard upon me, but bypositively pursuing in the long days free from temptation my goal ofBeauty. Then the things which I had confessed would gradually dropout of my life, as things which did not fit in with my ideal. Forthey were not good, nor true, nor beautiful.

"Pursue Beauty," he said, "like the Holy Grail."

With my head still bowed in my hands, I felt that happiness whichcomes upon men when they grasp a great idea. I felt lofty resolutionand serene confidence flowing into me like wine.

"And, finally," said this masterly priest, "know how certain you canbe that the absolution which I am going to pronounce is full andfinal. God only asks a true penitence, and you can offer Him nofairer fruits of penitence than those you have brought this morning.Know, then, that there will be no whiter soul in all God's churchthan yours, when you leave this room. For you will be as white aswhen you left the baptismal font. Now listen. You shall hear whatwas worked for you on Calvary."

I listened, and heard him speak with studied solemnity the words ofabsolution. And if a feeling can be said to grow up and get older,then there came upon me at that moment the feeling of a childreleased to play in the sunlight; only it was that feeling grown toa man's estate.

I rose from my knees to find that I was standing again in the world.I saw a ship's cabin, and a man removing a violet stole from a whitesurplice. It didn't seem a time in which to talk, so I turned thehandle of the cabin door, and went out quietly.

I went straight to my Submarine Watch on the deck. There was a glowpervading me, as of something pleasant which had just occurred.Forgive me if it be weak to have these fleeting moments ofexaltation, but I was seeing goodness, truth, and beauty ineverything. The bright sunlight was beauty; of course it was; theblue sea was beauty. And it all had something to do with beauty ofcharacter and beauty of life.

Imagine me this rare day, lost in my thoughts, as I watched the searunning by, or the new world coming to meet the bows. Sometimes Iwatched it with my naked eyes. Sometimes I hastened the approach ofthe new things by bringing my field glasses to bear upon them. And,all the time, I had a sense of satisfaction, as of somethingpleasant which had just occurred.

At first the broad blue floor of the sea stretched right away onevery side without a sail anywhere to suggest that it was a mediumof traffic. The sky, a far paler blue, met the horizon all round. Itwas only a slight restlessness over the surface that made theMediterranean distinguishable from a vast and still inland lake.The ship plied steadily onward in the opposite direction to the sun,which looked down upon the scene with its hot glance unmodified bycloud or haze.

With my glasses I swept the empty waters. At last I saw, sketchedover there with palest touch, a line of mountains—just such a rangeas a child would draw, one peak having a narrow point, another arounded summit. This land lay at so great a distance that it wasshadowless, and looked like a long bit of broken slate with itsjagged ends uppermost. I cast in my mind whether Gallipoli loomedlike this: and Gallipoli, somehow, seemed more peaceful since thatsatisfying event of the morning.

I dropped my glasses. For the first time I realised that I wassetting out to do something difficult for England. Actually I! Iglowed in the thought, for to-day, if ever, I was in an heroic mood.I touched for a moment the perfect patriotism. Yes, if Beautydemanded it, I could give all for England—all.

As the day went by, we seemed to be rounding that mountainousisland, for it lingered on our port, always changing its aspect, butalways remaining beautiful.

The whole scene was Beauty. And this Beauty, urged the voice of thepriest, was to have something to say in moments when I must choosebetween this bad deed and that good one. Of the two, I was to do theone that was the more like the Mediterranean on a summer day.

Oh, I had a clear enough ideal now. And why had I never seen before,as Monty had seen, that, just as there was far more beauty in seasand hills than ugliness, so on the whole there was more goodness inhuman characters than evil, and, assuredly, more happiness in lifethan pain. And the old Colonel, too, had seen beauty in youth andstrength; he had seen it triumphing in Penny's death and in all thissanguinary Dardanelles campaign.

Yes, I had closed on the idea. Even the lively excesses of MajorHardy's mob, even Jimmy Doon's cynical humour at the prospect ofdeath had much in them like the Mediterranean on a summer day.

Or, say, on a summer night like this. For, as the evening wore on,we were still passing this long island; and a pale mist had risen ina narrow ribbon from the sea-line, and hidden a lower belt of itshills from my view, so that the peaks towered like Mount Araratsabove a rising flood of fog-damp; and, as this bank of mist roseupward, the sun sank downward, a disc of gold fire.

I followed it with my glasses; and so rapid was its descent that,before I could count a hundred, it had dipped beneath thewater-line—become a flaming semicircle—then only a glowingrim—and disappeared. It left a few minutes' afterglow, with the skyevery shade from crimson at the horizon to blue at the zenith.

The world got darker, and the waves, breaking from the ship's bows,began to spill a luminous phosphorescence on the sea. I watched alittle longer; and then the stars and the phosphorescent wave-crestsglistened in a Mediterranean night.

CHAPTER VI

MAJOR HARDY AND PADRE MONTY FINISH THE VOYAGE

§1

But I must hurry on. Here am I dawdling over what happened indoorsin the minds of two boys, while out of doors nations were battlingagainst nations, and the whole world was in upheaval. Here am Ihappily describing so local a thing as the effort of a big-heartedpriest to rebuild our spiritual lives on the quiet moments of theMass and the strange glorious mystery of penance, while the greatDivision which captured the beaches of Cape Helles had been broughtto a standstill by the impregnable hill of Achi Baba, and uncountedtroopships like our own were pouring through the Mediterranean toretrieve the fight.

On with the war, then. One morning I was wakened by much talking andmovement all over the boat, and by Doe's leaping out of his topbunk, kicking me in passing, and disappearing through the cabindoor. Back he came in a minute, crying: "You must come out and seethis lovely, white dream-city. We're outside Malta."

I rushed out to find Valetta, the grand harbour of Malta, on threesides of us. We were anchored; and the hull of the Rangoon, whichlooked very huge now, was surrounded by Maltese bumboats.

Shore leave was granted us. And, ashore, we hurried through theblazing heat to visit the hospitals and learn from the crowds ofGallipoli sick and wounded something about the fighting at Helles.These cheery patients shocked our optimism by telling us that it washopeless to expect the capture of the hill of Achi Baba by frontalassault and that any further advance at Cape Helles was scratchedoff the programme. The hosts of troops that were passing throughMalta must, they surprised us by declaring, be destined for somesecret move elsewhere than at Helles, for there was no room for themon the narrow tongue of land beneath Achi Baba.

"We're wild to know what's in the wind," said a sister. "The streamof transports has never stopped for the last few days."

That we could well believe. There were two huge liners crammed withkhaki figures in the harbour that morning.

"We are going to win, I imagine?" asked Monty, with a note of doubt.

"O lord, yes," replied a superbly bonny youngster, without a rightarm. "But I don't envy you going to the Peninsula. It's heat, dust,flies, and dysentery. And Mudros is ten times worse."

"What's Mudros?" asked I.

"Mudros," broke in Doe, blushing, as he aired his classicallearning, "is a harbour in the Isle of Lemnos famous in classical—"

"Mudros," interrupted the one-armed man, proud of his experience,"is a harbour in the Island of Lemnos, and the filthiest hole—"

"Mudros," continued Doe, refusing to be beaten, "is a harbour in theIsle of Lemnos, which is the island where Jason and the Argonautslanded, and found Hypsipele and the women who had murdered theirhusbands. Jupiter hurled Vulcan from Heaven, and he fell uponLemnos. And it's sad to relate that Achilles and Agamemnon had a bitof a dust-up there."

"Well, that may be," said the one-armed hero, rather crushed byDoe's weighty lecture. "But you're going to Mudros first in yourtransport, and you'll probably die of dysentery there."

"Good Lord," said I.

We selected the ward where we would have our beds when we came downwounded, and the particular pretty sister who should nurse us; andwent out into the dazzling sun. Having climbed to a high level thatoverlooked the harbour, we leaned against a stone parapet, andexamined the French warships that slept, with one eye open, up anarrow blue waterway. For Malta in 1915 was a French naval base.

"Sad to see them there, sir," said a convalescent Tommy, pointing tothe grey cruisers flying the tricolour. "They've been bottled upthere, since the submarines appeared off Helles and sank theMajestic and t'other boats. There's only destroyers loafing aroundCape Helles now, sir."

"Great Scott, is that so?" asked Monty. "But I suppose we're goingto win?"

"O lord, yes," said the Tommy.

We got back to the Rangoon just before sundown. And, when the sunbegan to soften and to bathe the white buildings of Valetta in ruddyhues, our siren boomed out its farewell, and two English girls in asmall boat waved an incessant good-bye. Crowds gathered to brandishhandkerchiefs, as our transport crept away, with the boys singing:"Roaming in the gloaming on the banks of the Dardanelles," andyelling: "Are we downhearted? NO! Are we going to win? YES!"

"Well, that's the last of Malta," murmured Jimmy Doon. "Anotherlandmark in our lives gone."

§2

Two days' run brought us outside Alexandria. And the confoundedlylearned Doe, pointing out to me the pink and yellow town upon theAfrican sands, among its palms and its shipping, said: "Behold thecity of Alexander the Great, of Julius Cæsar and Cleopatra; the homeof the Greek scriptures; and the see of the great saints, Clement,Athanasius, and Cyril."

So I did what he wanted. I called him a Classical Encyclopædia, atwhich he looked uncomfortable and pleased.

It was Alexandria right enough. We had reached at last the base ofthe Dardanelles fight, and entered the outskirts of that ancientimperial world, which the old Colonel had told us was the theatre ofthe campaign.

Travelling very slowly, we steamed into the huge harbour. And soonwe were moored against one of its forty quays, and being addressedin an infernal jangle of tongues by hundreds of begging Arabs whocame rushing through the guns, limbers and field kitchens arrayed onthe quay.

More anxious than ever for news of the fight, we applied for shoreleave, and, after lunch, went down the gangway, and trod the soil ofAfrica for the first time.

At once, like an overpowering personality, the East rose up togreet us, oppressing us with its merciless Egyptian sun and itspungent smell of dark humanity. Heady with the sun, and sick withthe smell, we found ourselves in one of the worst streets ofAlexandria, the "Rue des Sœurs," a filthy thoroughfare ofbrothels masquerading as shops, and of taverns, which, like the restof the world, had gone into military dress and called themselves:"The Army and Navy Bar," "The Lord Kitchener Bar," and "The VictoryBar."

Phew! the sweat and the stench! The East was a vapour bath. What aclimate for a white man to make war in! And yet everywhere in thiscity of Alexander and Athanasius, British and Australian soldierssauntered on foot or drove government waggons through the streets.Sick and wounded, too, roamed abroad in their blue hospitaluniforms. Only too pleased to display before three eager novicestheir superior acquaintance with Gallipoli, they told us the storywe had heard at Malta: the Helles army, firmly stopped by the hillof Achi Baba, was melting away in the atrocious heat; but somestartling new venture was expected, for the forty quays ofAlexandria had been scarcely sufficient to cater for the troops andstores that had put in there; and all the hospitals in Egypt hadbeen emptied to admit twenty thousand casualties.

We hired a buggy, and drove back through the same odorous street tothe dockyard, and, having given the thief of an Arab driver a thirdof his demands, went straight to our cabins to rinse our mouths out.

Next day at sundown, the siren boomed good-bye. Perhaps there was amilitary reason for it, but we always left these ports at sunset. Itwas sunset, as we steamed out of Malta; and now, with the skyflushed and the air rose-tinted, we began to slip gently out of theharbour, amid cheers and handwavings from every ship that we passed.We were picking our course between the ships, when Monty plucked mysleeve, and, pointing to a home-bound liner, murmured:

"Beauty, Rupert."

I looked, and saw what he meant. For in the big liner's bows twotiny English children clad in white, a little boy and girl, wavedmechanically under the instructions of their sweet-faced Englishmother, who, though a young one, looked with a mother's eyes at ouryellow rows of helmeted lads, and waved the more energetically (Idoubt not) as she strove to keep back her tears. In the sad eyes ofthat youthful mother I saw looking out at us the maternal love ofher sex for all the sons of woman. She was the last Englishwomanthat many of these boys ever saw.

As we drew near the entrance of the harbour, a cheery Englishman wasswept past in a white-sailed craft, and called out, as the wind borehim away: "Good-bye, lads. Do your duty, lads. Give 'em hell ev'rytime." Almost the next minute he was a white speck among theshipping of the harbour, and we were out in the open sea.

§3

The Rangoon had taken aboard at Alexandria a number of newofficers who, after being wounded on Gallipoli and treated in Egypt,were now returning as fit for duty. One showed a long, white scaracross his scalp, where a bullet had just missed his brain. Another,who had still two bullets in his body, had been with ourschoolfellow Moles White in the River Clyde on the great Aprilmorning. These were people to be stared at and admired. Theyoccupied exactly the same position to us as the bloods did when wewere at school. They spoke with ease and grace of Mudros Harbour, ofthe great April landing at Helles, of the Eski Line, the RiverClyde, the Gully Ravine, and Asiatic Annie. We felt very nearthe trenches, when they thus tossed fabled names about incommonplace conversations. They never used the name "Gallipoli," butalways "The Peninsula." We made a mental note of this.

And they affected very shrewd ideas about the surprise push that wascoming off; but since they only nodded their heads wisely andrefused to be drawn, we suspected that they knew no more about itthan we did. They would point, with the pride of previous knowledge,to the purple-hilled islands of the Ægean that we were passing allday: Rhodes, and Patmos, and Mitylene. They laughed with damnablesuperiority at our extensive kit, declaring that for their part theyhad left everything at the base, and were carrying only a few poundsof necessaries to the Peninsula. Some of them walked the deck inprivate's uniform, maintaining that it was suicide to go to thePeninsula trenches in the distinctive dress of an officer. They werequite modest, simple folk, no doubt, but they certainly thought theywere the only people who realised that there was a war on.

Jimmy Doon, who had heard nothing of his lost draft at Alexandria,and was much relieved thereby, became incorrigible when he smelt thewhiff of the trenches brought by these heroes. He would invite oursubscriptions to the daily sweepstake with the words: "Come along,fork out. Last few sweeps of your life." And he would take me asideand say: "I suppose I shall be daisy-pushing soon. Tedious, isn'tit?"

Late one afternoon, when we were only an hour's run from Mudros,there came by wireless the inspiring news that solved the riddle ofthe chain of transports in the Mediterranean and the empty hospitalsin Alexandria. The simple typed message that was pinned on thenotice-board, and could scarcely be read for the crowds surroundingit, ran: "We have landed in strong force at Suvla Bay andpenetrated seven miles inland. Ends."

A new landing, hurrah! April 25th over again! The miracle of Hellesrepeated at Suvla! Out with the maps to study the strategy of themove! The map showed us Suvla Bay far up the coast of the Peninsula,a long way behind Achi Baba. We measured seven miles, and decidedthat the Turks' communications with Achi Baba must have been cut."Curse it," said an enthusiast, "we're just too late." We hadvisions of the Turkish Army flying from the Helles front in franticefforts to escape the surrounding threatened by this landing intheir rear. We saw them abandoning their impregnable positions atAchi Baba, abandoning the forts of the Narrows, and retreating, ifthey could elude destruction, upon Constantinople.

And while the strategists on deck were getting delirious in theirprophecies, the ship steered a path round two outlying islets, andentered the deep indentation in Lemnos Island, which is the mighty,hill-locked harbour of Mudros. A little French destroyer, pearl-greyin the evening light, steamed past us, and the French sailors wavedtheir arms, and danced a welcome to this troopship of their allies.The Rangoon yelled at them: "What price Suvla?" Some Englishsailors, towed past in coal barges, asked us whether we weredownhearted, and we called back: "NO! What—price—SUVLA! Are wegoing to win? YES!"

Now, I ask you, have the subalterns an excuse, or have they not, fora rough-house this night? It's their last night aboard, forto-morrow morning the smaller boats will come and carry them to thedeadly Peninsula: and it's the evening that has brought the news ofthe Suvla landing. Excuse or not, they fetch the money out of theirpockets at dinner, and order the champagne before the soup is offthe table. Jimmy Doon, whipping the golden cap off his magnum of"bubbly wine," says: "I've the horrible feeling I shall be dead thistime to-morrow. Pass your glasses, damn you. Cheerioh! Many 'appyreturns from the Great War—some day." "Cheerioh, Jimmy," weacknowledge. "'Appy days!"

And, when the hundred subalterns, who form the first sitting atdinner, vacate their places at the tables to make room for theseniors, who come in state to the second sitting, anyone who seesthem rushing upstairs to the lounge, the bar, and the piano, knowsthat there will be noise before the clock is an hour older. Itbegins in the lounge: but the impulse of the spirit of riot is toostrong for the rough-house to be localised there. It's the end ofthe voyage, and they must forthwith go and cheer the General. Theymust cheer the Captain. Above all they must cheer Major Hardy, theold sport! The mass of subalterns flows down the first flight ofstairs to the square gallery which overlooks the dining saloon, likerailings looking down into a bear-pit. And, like the bears, theseniors were feeding in the bottom of the saloon. They look up fromtheir nuts and wine to see a hundred flushed young faces staringfrom the gallery at their meal.

"Three cheers for the General!" cries a voice in the gallery.

Three of the noisiest fill the ship. And, when a hundred Britishofficers have yelled three cheers, it's in the nature of them to goon and sing: "For he's a jolly good fellow," and to finish up with afinal cheer that leaves its forerunners nowhere. It's a way theyhave in the Army.

"Speech! Speech!" demand exalted voices.

The General rises: and that's an excuse, heaven help us, for morecheers, and "He's a jolly good fellow" all over again. The seniorsare young enough to beat time on the tables by hammering with theirspoons till the plates dance; and by tinkling their glasses liketubular bells. In the last cheer one major so far forgetshimself—his name is Hardy—as to let go with a cat-call, afterwhich he immediately retires into his monocle, and pretends hehasn't.

The General, who is a kindly old brigadier with twinkling eyes,says: "I can't make a speech, but I'll sing you a song." He raiseshis glass to the gallery, and to the hundred faces looking down, andstarts in a wheezy tenor: "For they are jolly good fellows." Hegets no further, but takes advantage of the tumult of cheering toresume his seat.

The Captain, a naval hero of the Helles landing, is put through it.And in his speech he says: "If the Navy is really the father andmother of the Army in this Gallipoli stunt, then I say—father andmother are proud of their children"—(cheers from the ship'sofficers). "The ships came as close in shore as possible—and alwayswill, gentlemen, as long as you're on that plagued Peninsula—but,by God! it was the Army that left the shelter of the ships, and wentthrough the blizzard of bullets on to the beaches of Cape Helles."

Can such a compliment be acknowledged otherwise than uproariously?Close your ears, if you can't stand a noise.

The Chief Officer is put through it. And by way of a speech he says:"Suppose, instead of cheering me, you cheer the fellows who havelanded at Suvla?"

"Highland Honours!" yells a voice. And the seniors rise, stand upontheir chairs, put one foot on the table amongst the plates, and,raising their glasses, join in the musical honours given to the newarmy at Suvla.

Major Hardy is called, and a speech demanded from him. Loudlyapplauded, he limps to the middle of the saloon, puts his monocle inhis eye, and says one sentence: "I never heard such bloody nonsensein all my life." Releasing his monocle so that it falls on hischest, he limps back to his seat, and apologises to Monty.

The seniors having been thus sporting, it occurs to some brightyoung devil that it would be a graceful thing to sing "Home, sweetHome" to them, as they finish their meal. And "Home, sweet Home"leads naturally to "Auld Lang Syne," sung with linked arms andswaying bodies.

And then the crowd of subalterns, worked up by the licence allowedit, like a horse excited by a head-free gallop, returns in force tothe lounge. The pianist strikes up "The Old Folks at Home." AScotsman breaks in with the proclamation that It's oh! but he'slonging for his ain folk; Though he's far across the sea, Yet hisheart will ever be Away in dear old Scotland with his ain folk. Andan Irishman, feeling that there's too much of Scotland about thesesongs, begins to publish the attractions of the hills of Donegal:

Then the piano rings out with ancient dance-tunes, and HarryFenwick, prince of dancers, seizes Edgar Doe round the waist, and,clasping the slim youth to him, leads the boy (who's as graceful asa girl and as sinuous as a serpent) through the voluptuous movementsof the latest dance. Up and down go their outstretched arms like apump handle, but oh! so sweetly; round and round with eyeshalf-closed swirl their bodies; and, just as you think they aregoing round again, they surprise you by teasingly stepping out themusic in a straight line across the lounge; and, when you leastexpect it, they are retracing dainty steps along the same straightline—always seductive, tantalising, enticing.

But stop the dance. Here arrives Major Hardy to a din of welcome.And under his instructions they burn the champagne corks, andtherewith decorate their faces. One is ornamented with a pointedbeard and the devil's horns, and turned into Mephistopheles. One isgiven an unshaven chin, and made to represent Moses Ikeystein.Another is a White-eyed Kaffir. And don't think Major Hardy omitshimself. Not he. He is Hindenburg.

Jimmy Doon, I regret to say, is undoubtedly drunk. He is walkingabout seeking someone to fight. To my discomfiture he approaches meas his best friend, and therefore the one most likely to fight him.

"Will you fight?" says he. "There's a decent shap."

I try with a sickly laugh to appear at my ease, and answer: "No,damned if I will," blushing to the roots of my hair, and wishing thepainful person would go away.

"And you call yourself a Christian!" retorts Jimmy; which provokesthe rest of the subalterns to hold a court-martial on James Doon forbeing tight. And they court-martial Fishy Fielding, an ugly fellow,whose eyes are like a cod's. What for, you seek to know. Well, theycourt-martial him because of his face. Both culprits are foundguilty.

At 1 a.m. Jimmy staggers to his cabin to rest a swimming head. Buthe doesn't go to sleep till he has summoned his steward, andinstructed him to call him early in the morning—call himearly—call him early, for he's to be Queen of the May.

§4

The riot had been still young when Doe entered the lounge from thedeck, and, walking up to me, said:

"Come outside a minute."

He moved and spoke with the slight excitement and mysteriousness ofone who had discovered something. I followed him out from the noiseof the lounge into the silence of the deck.

"Come where it's quiet," he whispered.

We walked to the deserted bows.

"Now listen. Do you hear anything?"

"No," I answered, after awhile.

"Listen again. You won't catch it first go."

I strained my ears, while Doe stared at me.

"Yes, I hear it," I proclaimed at last. "Is it Helles, do you think,or Suvla?"

"I expect some of it is the old Turk trying to resist the invasionof Suvla."

For I had heard a distant throb in the air—no more—like a heartbeating miles away. At times the throb became a rumble which couldbe felt rather than heard. Something in me jumped at the sound. Thestartled feeling was rather pleasing than otherwise. It was not asmall thing to hear for the first time the guns of Gallipoli, towhose mouths our lives had been slowly drawing us during nineteenyears.

§5

Padre Monty finished the voyage in his own style. Early the nextmorning he had a corporate farewell Mass for all his servers and hisfamily. And this is the true story how Major Hardy chanced to limpto the service.

He retired early from the revels of the previous night, and, as Doeand I were getting into our bunks, we heard him in his cabin nextdoor whistling "Home, sweet Home," while he disrobed. We heard thesteward ask him:

"What time will you be called in the morning, sir?"

"What time?" answered the Major's voice, when he had finished thetune. "What time? Let's see. I say, Ray," he inquired through thewall, "this padre-fellow's got a service or something in themorning—what?"

"Yes, sir," shouted I.

"Some unearthly hour, seven or what?"

"Seven-thirty, sir."

"Ah yes," said the Major's voice, soft again, to the steward, "callme six-thirty."

"Yes, sir. Will you have shaving water then, sir?"

"Shaving water—what? Yes, surely." And the Major shouted throughthe wall: "We shave, don't we, Ray?"

"Well, yes, sir," agreed I.

"Of course," continued the Major, reproachfully, to the steward."Bring shaving water. And there'll be the most deplorable row ifit's not hot."

"Will you have a cup of tea to get up with, sir?" asked the steward.

"Tea? What? No, I don't think so. No, surely not." Once more hesought enlightenment through the wall. "We don't have tea, do we,Ray?"

"Well, no, sir. That's as you please."

"No. No tea, steward. Of course not. What nonsense!"

"Very good, sir. Good night, sir."

"Good night, steward.... You see, Ray," shouted Major Hardy, "I am abit out of this church business. Must get into it again—what. Andthe padre's a good fellow."

In such wise Major Hardy half apologised to two boys for beingpresent, and limped to the service.

Half a hundred others crowded the smoking room. This last Mass beingwhat Monty called his "prize effort," he insisted on having twoservers, and selected Doe and myself, whom he chose to regard as his"prize products." On either side of the altar we took our places,not now clad in white flannels, but uniformed and booted for goingashore. Monty, as he approached the altar, gave one quick,involuntary glance at his packed congregation, ready dressed forwar, and slightly sparkled and flushed with pleasure.

After the Creed had been said, Monty turned to deliver a littlefarewell address. Very simply he told his hearers that, when in afew hours' time the boats came to take them to the PeninsulaBeaches, they were to know that they were doing the right thing.There was a tense stillness, as he said with suggestive slowness: "Iam only the lips of your Church. She has been with you on this ship,and striven not to fail you. And now to God's mercy and protectionshe commits you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord give youHis peace this day and evermore."

If Monty desired to fill the room with an unworldly atmosphere, andto raise the cloud "Shechinah" around his little altar, he knew bythe solemn hush, as he turned to continue the Mass, that he hadsucceeded. And at the end of it all he added a farewell hymn, whichthe congregation rose from their knees to sing. Sung to the tune of"Home, sweet Home," like an echo from the purer parts of theprevious night, its words were designed by Monty to linger for manya day in the minds of his soldier-servers.

So they sang: and they went out on to the sunlit deck trailingclouds of glory.

§6

It really did seem the end of the voyage, and the beginning ofsomething utterly new—and something so dangerous withal that ourpulse-rate quickened with suspense—when the Military LandingOfficer came aboard, laden with papers, and, sitting at a table inthe lounge, gave into the hands of boys, who yesterday were playingquoits-tennis, written orders to proceed at once to such places asW. Beach on Helles or the new front at Suvla.

"Here we take our tickets for the tumbrils," murmured Jimmy Doon, aswe stood awaiting our turn. "Third single for La Guillotine."

And yet it was with a jar of disappointment that we heard the M.L.O.say to Doe, after consulting his papers:

"Stop at Mudros. Report to Rest Camp, Mudros East."

"Why, sir, am I not going to—" began Doe.

"Next, please. What name?" interrupted the M.L.O. There was warforty miles away, and no time to argue with a young subaltern. "Whatname, you?"

"Ray, sir. East Cheshires."

"Rest Camp, Mudros."

"But is it for long, sir?" ventured I.

"Next, please. What name, padre?"

"Monty," answered our friend. "East Cheshires."

"Report Rest Camp," promptly said the M.L.O., and, raising hisvoice, called to the waiting crowd: "All East Cheshire Detailsdetained at Mudros."

"But I have to relieve—" began Monty.

"Next, please. What name?" the M.L.O. burst in, looking up intoJimmy Doon's face.

"Jimmy—I mean, Lieutenant Doon, Fifth East Lancs."

"Held up, Mudros. Report—"

"But my draft, sir, has—"

"Next, please."

And Jimmy came away, hoping he had heard the last of his draft. Hejoined our Cheshire group, which was discussing the latestthunderbolt.

"Lord, isn't it enormously unseemly?" he grumbled. "I'm left out,too. Why, I've been a year in the Army, and not yet seen a mankilled. I hoped I was certain to see one now."

"You detestably gruesome little cad," said Monty.

"I wonder if it's for long," murmured Doe. "I'd take the risk ofbeing killed rather than not be able to say I'd seen the great CapeHelles, or, failing Helles, this new Suvla front."

"As it is," grunted Jimmy, "we shall probably be at Mudros till theend of the world."

The M.L.O. had not been gone an hour before the Navy sent itspinnaces with large lighters in tow for conveying the first draftsto the Peninsula ferry-boats. Each pinnace was in command of amidshipman, generally a fair-haired English boy looking aboutfifteen. These baby officers, who gave their orders to wide-chestedand bronzed Tars, old enough to be their fathers, were stared at byus with romantic interest. For there had been stories in England ofthe deeds of the middies in the famous First Landing at Helles, whenthey remained in the bows of the boats they commanded, scorningcover of any kind, as became British officers in charge of men.

After the lighters, the Snaefell, an old Isle of Man steamer, camealongside, and, having taken some hundreds of men aboard, edged awayfrom us, while Major Hardy, his heart ever overthrowing his dignity,said wrathfully:

"Give 'em a cheer or something, damn you."

We raised a cheer. The men responded, though not very effectively,and cheered and waved as the Snaefell carried them away.

"They know what they're going to, poor lads," mumbled Major Hardy.

Next came the Redbreast, whose decks were soon as crowded as theSnaefell's had been. Major Hardy scanned them through hiseyeglass, and then turned snuffily upon us and said:

"Damn your English reticence! Damn your unimaginative silence! Whydon't you study the psychology of these boys and this moment?"

Leaning over the rail, he cried at the crowd on the Redbreast:

"Good-bye, lads. Let fly! Three cheers for the king! Let 'em go!"

The boys caught his enthusiasm, as boys always will, and followedhis lead, cheering the king and singing: "For he's a jolly goodfellow.... And so say all of us. With a hip-hip-hip-hurrah!"

And with them cheering and singing thus, the Redbreast slippedquietly away.

Major Hardy dropped his monocle on his chest. A good voyage—a jollyvoyage—was over.

And now a little motor-launch puffed alongside to collect the MudrosDetails: and we went down the Rangoon's hull to be ferried ashore.We were ferried, as you shall see, out of our dazzling news of thecampaign into the darkness of collapsing things.

Part II: The White Heights

CHAPTER VII

MUDROS, IN THE ISLE OF LEMNOS

§1

The motor-launch beat away from the Rangoon. Monty, standing inthe stern, lit a pipe, and stared over the match-flame at the emptytroopship. Jimmy Doon, sitting in the bows, surveyed the hill-lockedharbour, and said to me:

"Well, there's one comfort: we shan't be killed on Gallipoli."

"Why not?"

"Because we shall certainly die at Mudros."

Doe was brooding over the ships of the Navy on the water, and overthe white camps of the Army on the dull, bleak hill-slopes.

"I didn't know there were so many ships in the world," he said.

It was a wonderful revelation of sea power. There were battleships,heavy and squat; cruisers, more slender and graceful; low-lyingdestroyers, coal black or silver grey; and hospital ships, which, intheir glistening white paint, were as much more lovely than themen-of-war as ruth is more lovely than ruthlessness. Our littlelaunch was passing heavy-gunned monitors; skirting round submarinesthat lay above the surface like the backs of whales; and pantingalong beneath the enormous Aquitania, whose funnels appeared toreach a higher sky than the surrounding hills. Flags fleweverywhere: the white ensign from the masts of the Navy, the redensign from the troopers, and the martial tricolour from the vesselsof the Frenchmen.

Jimmy Doon sighed and pointed ashore. "Look at the unseemlyhospitals," he said.

As he spoke, we were steering towards a little landing-jetty, calledthe "Egyptian Pier," and could see the Red Cross floating over thecamps.

"Hospitals at Malta," groaned Jimmy, "hospitals at Alexandria,hospital ships all over the Mediterranean and the Ægean—Ray, it'sdangerous: we'll go home."

But, instead, we stepped ashore. At once the reflected coolness ofthe water deserted us; the heady heat off the dusty land hit ourflesh like the hot air from an oven; and a glare from the white,trampled dust and the white canvas tents troubled our eyes and setour temples aching. And the rolling hills, empty of growth, exceptgrass burnt brown and thistles burnt yellow, gave us a shock ofdepression.

"Damn, oh damn," said Jimmy.

"Precisely," agreed Monty.

We walked on, till we reached an array of square tents that formedNo. 16 Stationary Hospital. Here pale and emaciated men werewandering in pyjamas between tents marked "Dysentery," "Enteric,"and "Infectious Wards."

"Damn," repeated Jimmy.

Then we came upon a barbed-wire compound, and, caught by the morbidfascination of all prisons, looked in. It was full of sick andwounded Turks, who lay on stretchers in bell-tents, and, by amiserable pantomime of raising two fingers to their lips and blowinginto the air, besought of our charity a cigarette. We went in, andhanded Abdullas among them. And that—now I come to think of it—wasour first encounter with the enemy we had been sent to fight.

At the Rest Camp Doe and I were pushed into a tent that,insufficiently supplied with pegs, was flapping irritatingly in arising wind. Sighing for the cosy cabins of the Rangoon, we tossedoff our equipment on to the earthy floor and lounged into the messfor lunch. In the mess tent we sat down to trestle-tables, laid withcoarse enamelled plates and mugs.

Monty turned to Jimmy, and asked: "What was that remark you madejust now, James Doon?"

"Damn," answered Jimmy with great readiness.

"Thanks," said Monty.

After lunch there came to Doe and myself the only pleasing thing ina day of gloom. That was the joy of dressing up in the true tropicalkit worn at Mudros; brown brogue shoes; pale brown stockings, turneddown at the calves; khaki drill shorts, displaying bare knees; khakishirts open at the throats, and with sleeves rolled up above whiteelbows; our topees, and no more. And, since we were sure we lookedvery nice, we decided to walk abroad among men. Besides, theshameful whiteness of our knees and forearms must be browned at onceby a walk in the toasting sun.

We set off for the village of Mudros East. It proved to be acollection of ramshackle dwellings, as little habitable as Englishcowhouses; of stores, where thieving Greeks sold groceries to thesoldiers; and of taverns, whose vines hung heavily clustered overporch and window. There was an ornate and lofty Greek OrthodoxChurch, and a little, unconsidered cemetery, where the bones of thedead were working their way above the ground.

In the streets of this tumble-down town walked every type ofGallipoli campaigner: British Tommies, grousing and cheerful;Australians, remarkable for their physique; deep-brown Maoris;bearded Frenchmen in baggy trousers; shining and grinning Africannegroes from French colonies; stately Sikhs; charming littleGurkhas, looking like chocolate Japanese; British Tars in theirwhite drill; and similarly clad sailors of Russia, France andGreece.

It was while strolling through this fancy-dress fair that wesuddenly came upon the camp of the French, and were briskly salutedby a French sentry. We returned a thrilling acknowledgment. For itwas the first time that our great Ally had greeted our advent intothe area of war.

Lord! how the wind was rising! And with it the dust! The grey motorambulances, as they purred past with their sick, raised dust storms,that blew away over the roofs in clouds as high again as the houses.The ships and the harbour, though it was a sunny, cloudless day,could only be seen through a flying veil of dust. Quickly the vines,overhanging the porches, became white with dust; our teeth andpalates coated with it. We hastened home to the sorry shelter of themess that we might wash the dust down our throats with tea.

But bah! we went out of the dust into the flies. The mess wasbuzzing with them; and they were accompanied in their attacks uponour persons by bees, who hummed about like air-ships amongaeroplanes. I dropped upon the table a speck of Sir Joseph Paxton'sexcellent jam, now peppered and gritty with dust, and in a fewseconds it was hidden by a scrimmage of black flies, fighting overit and over one another. Other flies fell into my tea, and did thebreast-stroke for the side of the mug. I pushed the mug along toJimmy Doon, and pointed out to him, with the conceit of the expert,that they were making the mistake of all novices at swimming; theywere moving their arms and legs too fast, and getting no motivepower out of their leg-drive.

"Don't talk to me about 'em," said Jimmy. "I'm fast going mad. I'mnot knocking 'em off my jam, but swallowing the little devils asthey sit there. If I didn't do that, they'd commit suicide down mythroat. Every time so far that I've opened my mouth to inhale thebreeze, I've taken down a fly. It's tedious."

Ah! this wit was all forced gaiety, and the more depressing forthat. It generated melancholy, as a damp fire generates smoke. Ifelt there was something wrong around me this afternoon—a shadow ofevil. The conversation died: only the flies buzzed monotonously overus, as though we were offal or carrion; and the wind blew the dustin hail-storms against the canvas walls of the tent. And then itcame—the terribly evil thing. The O.C. Rest Camp entered the mess,and announced with cynical cheerfulness:

"Well, we've lost this campaign. The great new landing at Suvlahas failed."

There was a ghastly silence, and a voice muttered, "God!"

"Yes, and had it succeeded we'd have won. But the Turks have got usheld at Suvla beneath Sari Bair, same as they've got us held atHelles beneath Achi Baba. The news is just filtering through."

With horror I listened to the cold-blooded statement. The shock ofit produced a beating in the head, and a sickness. And I feltfoolish, as though I might do something lunatic, like giving awitless shout, or running amok with a table-knife. I touched Doe,and whispered: "I'm going to get out of this. The old fool doesn'tknow what he's talking about."

I went away, and flung myself down on my valise in my flapping tent.I lay on my back, my hands clasped behind my head, and gazed up intothe tent-roof loud with flies. Suvla had failed! It was a lie—analarmist lie! Why, only yesterday we had exulted in it as thewinning move, declaring that the game was over bar shouting, andregretting that we could not be in at the death. What was itreminding me of—this sudden "black-out," just as the lights hadbeen brightest? Ah, I had it: that moment, when, in the flush ofwinning the Swimming Cup for Bramhall, I learned that I had lost it.How similar this was! Then the prize had been a silver cup, whichhad been fought for by a parcel of schoolboys. Now the grandertrophy was that silver strip of the Dardanelles which men called"the Narrows," and the combatants were a pack of nations.

Suvla had failed! Why was I identifying my tiny self with a hugething like Britain, and feeling that, because she had failed in hergreat fight for the Dardanelles, so I would fail, and purposely, inmy little struggle after moral beauty? What a fool I was—but thatwas how it was working out. Beauty be hanged! Monty was badly wrongin proclaiming that nature was chiefly beautiful, and life on thewhole was good. And, if he were wrong, why, then there was nofurther need to toil after a beauty of character to match the beautyof seas and hills. Good heavens! Beauty in the Mudros Hills! Theywere but homes of thirsty grass and dying thistles, dust andtorturing flies. These ideals of Monty's were vapoury. Why not throwthem up—throw up moral effort? I would. There was not morebeauty—

It was at this moment that Monty himself stood in the tent door.

"Down, Rupert?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

I looked up into his eyes, and saw in them that inquiring sympathywhich could so quickly transfigure him from a lively friend into agentle priest.

"Oh, nothing," I said. I was in no mood just now to tell himanything. "Bored, that's all."

And then I looked round, and noticed that the tent was full of aviolet light. It was as if limelight had been turned on from behinda violet glass.

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "The air's all coloured!"

"Yes," said he, "I was coming to tell you to look at the sunset.It's bad old Mudros's one good deed."

Out to the tent door I went, and looked over the harbour to thewestern shores. And there, very rapidly, the ball of the sun wasgoing down behind the hills with an affair of gold and crimsonlights, while all the hills were violet. The colour was so strongthat it came out and flushed with violet the black hulls of theships. And they, strangely motionless, lay mirrored in a water ofwhite and gold.

"Listen!" said Monty.

For from all the camps the British bugles were singing the sad callof "Retreat"; the French trumpets wailing "Sun-down," and theirrifles firing a rapid fusillade to speed the departing day.Meanwhile the heat had died into a refreshing coolness; the wind haddropped, leaving the dust undisturbed on the ground; and the flieswere roosting in the tops of the tents.

Very soon it was quite dark. Then everything lit up: first, thecamps on the hills, their innumerable hurricane-lamps resembling thelights of great cities; then, the vessels in the bay—and, in thequiet of the windless evening, their bells, telling the hour, cameclearly over the water. The long hulls of the hospital ships markedthemselves off by rows of green lights and large, luminous redcrosses. Reflected in the still water, they gave to the basin theappearance of a pleasure lake, gay with red and green fairy lamps.The battleships hid their bellicose features in the darkness, and,since one or two of them had their bands playing, might have beenpleasure steamers. And from an Indian encampment behind us came aweird incantation and the steady beat of the tom-tom.

Somehow, in the beauty of the Mudros night, I felt a spring of newhope in our campaign. We would win in the end. And with this re-bornconfidence went nobler resolutions for myself. To-morrow I wouldresume moral effort. To-morrow I would begin again.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREEN ROOM

§1

The story of our two-months' delay at Mudros is largely the story ofMonty's eccentricities. As for Doe and myself, we just watched withgrowing pride our knees burning in the sun to a Maori brown. When webathed in the bay and saw that, while our bodies as a whole were apale English pink, our elbows, knees and necks, that were dailyexposed to the sun, were turning to this beautiful tint, we wouldplace our limbs side by side to see which of us achieved the greaterdepth of colour. For this we drew our pay.

Jimmy Doon received early his orders to join his regiment on thePeninsula. He left us, declaring that he only contemplated paying aflying visit to the front, as the very sound of the guns convincedhim that he was a civilian at heart. He would be back soon, he said.

Monty appointed himself Chaplain to No. 16 Stationary Hospital, andset to work. And during this period at Mudros he was just about asregrettable and impossible in his behaviour as I have ever knownhim. He procured a gramophone, and, touring the tents, in which thesick men lay, would set the atrocious instrument playing, "Kitty,Kitty, isn't it a pity in the city you work so hard?" The invalidsloved the jingling refrain, and added to the plagues of Mudros byroaring its chorus. Then Monty would return in the worst of tempersto our tent, and, putting the instrument roughly away, sit down andlook miserable. If Doe asked permission to feel his pulse or see histongue, he would shut him up with the words, "Oh, stuff!" But oncehe laughed sarcastically and burst, with all the Monty enthusiasmand emphasis, into a diatribe against Broad Churchmanship, theignorance of laymen, the timidity of the clergy, wishy-washysermons—in short, the criminal lack of dogmatic teaching. Notseeing any connexion between dogmatic teaching and a gramophone, Doelooked so amazed that Monty laughed, and grumbled:

"It's fine priestly work I'm doing for these lads, isn't it? Workany hospital orderly could do. I ought to be hearing theirconfessions, and saying Mass for them. Instead I play them 'Kitty,Kitty, isn't it a pity—?' But they don't understand—they don'tunderstand."

"But, gracious heavens," said Doe, "you can't be always doingpriestly work. And we know to our sorrow that you do have sing-songservices sometimes. Why, last night you had at least a couple ofhundred bawling hymns at the tops of their voices, and making thenight hideous. Wasn't that priestly enough?"

"No," he snapped. "It was a service any layman or hot-gospellercould hold. There they were—a mass of bonny lads, all callingthemselves 'C. of E.,' and none of them knowing anything about theMass or confession. Ah, they don't understand. It breaks my heart,Rupert. All sons of the Church; and they don't know the lines oftheir mother's face!"

"Well, why on earth," said Doe, impatiently, "do you run yourbeastly gramophone and your rousing services, if they're not yourproper work?"

"Why, don't you see?" murmured Monty, turning away to watch the sunsetting behind a sweep of violet hills, "I must pull my weight. Ican feel patriotic at times. And, if I can't be a priest to the bigmajority, I can at least be their pal. That's how a padre's workpans out: a priest to the tiny few, and a pal to the big majority. Isuppose it's something. Perhaps it's something."

§2

It was Monty who first called Mudros, "The Green Room." The name washappily chosen, for here at Mudros the actors either prepared fortheir entry on the Gallipoli stage, or returned for a breather, tillthe call-boy should summon them again. In it, after the manner ofgreen rooms, we discussed how the show in the limelight was going.We saw much that made us gossip.

We saw the huge black transports bear into Mudros Bay. Many wereships that were the pride of this watery planet. Like a duch*esssailing into a ball-room came the Mauretania, making the mereprofessional warships and the common merchantmen look very smallindeed. But even she, haughty lady, was put in the shade, when heryoung but gargantuan sister, the Aquitania, floating leisurelybetween the booms, claimed the attention of the harbour, and reducedus all to a state of grovelling homage. And then the Olympic, notto be outdone by these overrated Cunarders, would join the companywith her nose in the air.

They were packed with yellow-clad and helmeted soldiers, who were asnoisy about their entrance as the great ships were silent. Tommy,coming into harbour at the end of a voyage, had a habit ofannouncing his approach. So, when we on the land heard over thewater shouting, singing, genial oaths, "How-d'ye-do's," and"What-ho's"; and such advices as "Cheerioh! The Cheshires are here!""We'll open them Narrows for you"; "Here we are, here we are, herewe are again," or the simple statement "We've coom!" we left ourtents, and just went into our field-glasses, as one goes into atheatre.

The men in the transports were delayed a night in the harbour, andon the following day disgorged into the floating omnibuses thatplied nightly to Suvla or Helles. These omnibuses were old Isle ofMan passenger steamers, jolly old tubs, doing their bit like papaand uncle and grandad in the National Guard at home. Being due toarrive with their crowds of fighting men at the Peninsula in thedarkness of midnight, they would get under way just before dusk.They went out with the sun, travelling straight and slowly betweenthe hulls.

To the lads, thus being drawn to the danger-zone, a send-off wouldbe given in salvos of cheers from the sides of the anchored vessels,the bands of the Navy sometimes playing them out with the old airsof England. And the lads themselves, enjoying their evanescenttriumph, and feeling like the applauded heroes on a carnival car,would shout back a merry response, or pick up the chorus of the tunerendered by the distant band.

Many a still evening Doe and I watched their departure, knowingthat soon we should go out of the port like that in the red of asunset. And Monty, hearing the cries of "Good Luck," "Love to JohnnyTurk," "Finish it off quickly," "Hi, put yer trust in Gawd, and keepyour 'ead down," and the faint strains of "Steady, boys, steady,we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again," would bewail thefact that he was too far off to cheer, and give vent to rising andchoking feelings. He wanted to pat these departing lads on the back.For in the Green Room they had dressed for their parts, and were nowgoing through the door on their way to the stage.

§3

Were we really winning on the Peninsula or losing? August, in spiteof that black remark of the O.C. Rest Camp, decided that all waswell. The fresh arrivals on the troopships brought with them like abreeze from the homeland that atmosphere of glowing optimism whichprevailed in England in the early August days. The same news camefrom the opposite direction. For the streams of wounded, who in theweeks following the Suvla invasion poured into our Mudros hospitals,told us that the Turk was fairly on the run. "It can't last long,"they said. "We've only to climb one of them two hills—either SariBair on the Suvla front, or old Achi Baba at Helles—and the trick'sdone. From the top of either of 'em we shall look down upon theNarrows, and blow their forts to glory. Up'll go the Navy, and therey'are!" It would be over by Christmas, they believed; for Christmaswas always the pivot of Tommy's time.

So spoke August, drinking deep from cups overflowing withconfidence. September detected a taste of doubt in the cheeryoptimism of the Green Room, and like a loyal British September, spatout the unpalatable mouthful. But the taste remained.

Nothing but stagnation seemed to be prevailing on the Peninsula. Theincessant roll of guns could no longer be heard at Mudros. Theold-time shifts of wounded ceased to pour into our hospitals. Intheir stead came daily crowds of dysentery, jaundice and septiccases. And these men told a different tale from the wounded, who, amonth before, had returned from the stage like actors aglow withtriumph. All reported "Nothing doing" on Gallipoli.

And the Big Rains were fast drawing due. The time was at hand whenthe ravines and gorges that cracked and spliced the Mudros Hillswould roar to the torrents, and the hard, dust-strewn earth wouldbecome acres of mud, from which our tent-pegs would be drawn likepins out of butter. We remembered Elijah on Mount Carmel, and lookedat the sky for rain.

But we looked in alarm and not hope. For, if the Narrows were notforced before the rains and sea-storms began, the campaign, weunderstood, would be doomed to disaster. The rain would turn ourgreat Intermediate Base, Mudros, into a useless lagoon, and thesea-storms would beat on the beaches of the Peninsula, smash thefrail jetties built at Suvla and Helles, and, by preventing thelanding of supplies, condemn the Suvla army and the Helles army toannihilation or surrender.

"Surely, oh surely," said Monty, looking up one day at a cloudy sky,"something largely conceived will be attempted before the rains workhavoc among the communications on land, and the storms slash at thecommunications by sea. We must be going to win."

"O Lord, yes," echoed I.

But September with its dry weather began to wane, the rains starteda plaguy pelting, and the winds commenced to excite the placidÆgean, while we still awaited big movements and final things.

§4

Then the evil Peninsula sent straight to Monty's feet something thatseemed like a direct message of scornful warning to our littleRangoon group. It was such a message as defiant kings have sent tobanter those who contemplated an invasion of their realms. This ishow it came.

Day after day (you must know) in the early morning, the dead, sewnup in their blankets, were landed from the ships that had pickedthem up in a dying condition at Suvla and Helles. They were laid inrows on the little landing-jetty, the "Egyptian Pier." After awhilethe men would put them by in a mortuary tent, where they rested tillthe evening, when a G.S. waggon conveyed them to the cemetery.

Generally Monty, whose duty it was to bury them, would sit on thedriver's seat and ride to the cemetery, after persuading Doe and meto ride with him.

On a certain September evening Monty glanced at the CampCommandant's "chit," and read it aloud to us: "'Seven bodies forburial at 1700.' Are you coming?"

Doe turned towards me. "Coming, Rupert?"

"No. I'm too tired."

"Oh, rot, you scrimshanker. You've been hogging it all theafternoon."

"Yes, come on," said Monty. "We'll drive on the waggon."

The G.S. waggon with its seven blanketed forms was outside waitingfor Monty. It was drawn by two teams of mules with mounted drivers.The driver's seat was therefore vacant, and on to it Monty, Doe andI climbed. The waggon started, as Monty whispered: "It's rather likethe Dead Cart in the days of the Great Plague, isn't it?" We neverspoke loud with that load behind us.

The waggon jolted along the straight white road to the cemetery,which was a little dusty acre on a plain between the hills. Wehalted at the gate, and Monty, getting down from his seat, robed bythe front wheels. And, when the seven bodies had been removed intheir stretchers from the waggon and laid in a line upon the road,the corporal of the Burial Party saluted Monty, and said:

"One's an officer, sir. Will you take him first?"

"I'll go in front," answered Monty. "Then the seven bodies, oneafter another, the officer's body leading. Feet first, of course."

"Very good, sir." The corporal, seeing that the bearers stood readyat the head and foot of each stretcher, said quietly:

"Bearers, raise!"

All the bearers bent in simultaneous motion, and lifted thestretchers from the road.

"Slow—march!"

The procession moved off, Monty in front picking his way between thegraves towards those open to receive the day's dead. The Greekgrave-diggers rested on their spades, and bared their heads. Somestray French soldiers sprang to attention, and saluted. A fewcurious British and a tall brown Sikh copied the Frenchmen,remaining at the salute till the procession had passed. And, whenthe open graves were reached, all these stragglers gathered round toform a little company of mourners.

Having seen the bodies laid by the graves, the corporal bent overthe form of the dead officer, and removed from his breast that smallpiece of paper, which was always pinned to the blanket to state theman's identity: in this case it happened to be a governmentenvelope, marked "On His Majesty's Service." The corporal handed itto Monty.

I recall the moment of his action as the last quiet moment before anunexpected shock. I seem to remember that it was a very gracefulbody, long and shapely, that lay there, outlined beneath thetightly-wrapped blanket. It looked like an embalmed Egyptian.

Monty read the envelope, and frowned. He read it again, crumpled itup, and looked down at the long, slender form of the dead officer.Then, glancing round for Doe and me, and catching our eyes, as wewatched him in curiosity, he handed the envelope to us. We smoothedout its crumpled folds, and read: "On His Majesty's Service. Lieut.James Doon."

This was the message that the Peninsula had contemptuously tossed tous.

Monty began the service, but I scarcely heard him. I was staring atthe blanketed form, and thinking of Jimmy as he had been: Jimmy withall his bitter jests about death; Jimmy grumbling on the Rangoonbecause he would have to stay at Mudros "till the end of the world";Jimmy leaving for the Peninsula with the words that he would be backsoon. I thought how strange it was that we should have been sittingon that G.S. waggon, without knowing that we were taking a last ridewith Jimmy Doon. I pictured again Jimmy being borne into thecemetery, feet first, at the head of his six dead men.

"Man that is born of a woman—" Monty was saying, and, as the wordsfell, the bearers raised with ropes the corpse from off itsstretcher, and began to lower it into the grave.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust—" At this point thekindly French and British onlookers and the tall brown Sikh pickedup their handfuls of earth, and threw them upon the body as theircompliment to the dead.

The sight of Jimmy going down into his grave on the lengtheningropes started in me a real grief, and, when the strangers paid theirsimple respect to the unknown dead, I felt momentarily stricken, andshivered with pride that I had known him whom they thus honoured.But all this passed away, and left a dull indifference. The war wasfast teaching me its petrifying lesson—to be incapable of horror. Itried to recover my sorrow, thinking that I ought to do so, but Icould feel no emotion at all. "This sort of thing," ran my thoughts,"seems to be the order of the day for the generation in which wewere born. It's all very fine, or all very unfair. I don't know. Theold Colonel and Monty said it was very glorious, so no doubt it mustbe. But, whatever it is, we're all in it. Poor old Jimmy."

So I fell into a mood that was partly the resignation of perplexity,partly a sulkiness with fate. With the same blunted mind, perceivingno pain, I watched the Greek diggers, at the end of the service, asthey began to shovel the earth on to my friend's body. First theytossed it so that it fell in a little pile on his breast; then theythrew it, dust and clods, over his feet, till at last only the head,hooded in its blanket, was uncovered. They turned their attention tothat, and the earth fell heavily on Jimmy Doon's face. I turnedunfeelingly away.

Poor Jimmy, a mere super in the Gallipoli drama, had played histrifling part on the stage, and was now sleeping in the Green Room.

Was it all very fine, or all very unfair? In my tent that evening Iworried the problem out. At first it seemed only sordid that JamesDoon should have his gracious body returned by that foul Peninsula,like some empty crate for which it had no further use, to be buriedwithout firing party, drums or bugles. But every now and then Icaught a glimpse of my mistake. I was thinking in terms of matterinstead of in terms of spiritual realities. I must try to get thepoetic gift of the old Colonel and Monty, whose thoughts did notprison themselves in flesh but travelled easily in the upper air ofabstract ideals like glory and beauty and truth. But it wasdifficult. Only in my exalted moments could I breathe in that highair.

And I could not climb to-night. Perhaps if they had but sounded the"Last Post" at Jimmy's burial, I should have lost sight of itsgrossness and caught the vision of its glory. I was wondering ifthis would have unveiled the hidden beauty, when, very strangely,the bugles in all the camps rang out with the great call. It wasdark, and they were sounding the "Last Post" over the close of theday's work. But for those who preferred to think so, it was blownover the day's dead.

CHAPTER IX

PROCEEDING FORTHWITH TO GALLIPOLI

§1

"Look here, Doe," said I, with my finger on a map of the Island ofLemnos. "If you've guts enough to walk with me over these five milesof hills to this eastern coast, it strikes me we shall actually seea distant vision of the Peninsula itself."

Doe looked learnedly at the map.

"With a clear sky and field-glasses we might make out the fatal oldspot," said he. "Come on—we'll try."

So we turned our faces eastward through the afternoon, unaware thatwe were about to take a last bird's-eye view of the great Naval andMilitary Base of Mudros, and a first peep at the GallipoliPeninsula, where in less than a hundred hours we should be diggingourselves a home.

We bent our backs to the task of toiling up the hillsides. We foundthe slopes carpeted with dry grass and yellow thistles, andsprinkled with loose stones and large lumps of rock. Long-hairedsheep with bells a-tinkle, sleepy black cows, and tiny mules browsedamong the arid thistles, or scratched their backs against the brokenrocks.

Down into the valleys we went, and up and over the summits. It wasdull prose in the valleys, but fine poetry on the summits. For,whereas in the valleys we saw nothing but thistles and stones, onthe summits we enjoyed extensive views of lap-like hollows nursinglittle white villages; we caught distant specks, brilliantly lightedin the sun, of the encircling sea; and we wondered at theblood-coloured rocks which suggested volcanic disturbances and lavastreams.

After dipping into several depressions and surmounting severalyokes, we suddenly overtopped the last ridge and looked down upon atableland, which bore, like a tray of tea-things, the whitebuildings of a little village. The plateau was the edge of Lemnos,and ran to the brink of a jagged cliff. Beyond lay the empty waters.

"Look," said Doe, a little dreamily; "now we shall see what we shallsee."

We lay down on the cliff-edge in the attitude of the sphinx, andbrought our powerful field-glasses into play. And through them wesaw, in the far-off haze, things that accelerated the beating of ourhearts.

There, right away across forty miles of blue Ægean, was a vague,grey line of land. It was broken in the middle as if it opened achannel to let the sea through. The grey land, west of the break,was the end of Europe, the sinister Peninsula of Gallipoli. Thebreak itself, bathed in a gentle mist, was the deadly opening to theDardanelles. Presumably, one of those hill-tops, just visible, wasold Achi Baba, which had defeated the invaders of Helles; andanother, Sari Bair, beneath which lay the invaders of Suvla,wondering if they, too, had been beaten by a paltry hill.

The entrancing sight was bound to work upon Doe's nature. Stilllooking through his glasses, he asked:

"I say, Roop, what's the most appealing name that the War has givento the history of Britain—Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?"

"Gallipoli," I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted.

"Just so. And shall I tell you why?"

"Yes, thanks. If you'll be so obliging."

"Well, it's because the strongest appeal that can be addressed tothe emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power calledPathos—"

"Good heavens!" I began.

"And there, my boy," pursued Doe, "in picture-form before you, thishumid afternoon, is the answer to your question."

"But it was your question," I suggested.

"Don't be a fool, Rupert. Ask me what I mean."

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"I mean this: that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning tosee the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, andpresenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions."

I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon hesat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made thisirrelevant remark:

"Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near myhome?"

"Yes."

"Well, do you think it's anything like a lily? For mercy's sake sayit is."

"Why?" I demanded.

"And it does change colour in the changing light, doesn't it,Rupert? Say 'Yes,' you fool—say 'Yes.'"

"Why?"

"Oh, because I've written—I've written some verses about it—when Iwas a bit homesick, I s'pose—and I'd like you to tell—"

"Hand them over," sighed I.

"I will, since you're so pressing. They're in the Edgar Doe stanza."

Doe gave me a soiled piece of paper, and watched me breathlessly. Iread:

"Oh, you've felt like that, have you?" said I. "So've I. Your poemexactly expresses my feeling, so it must be absolutely IT."

"Rupert, you ripping old liar!" answered Doe, aglow with pleasure.

"No, I mean it; honestly I do."

"Well, anyhow," said Doe, getting up and brushing thistles off hisuniform, "don't you think that now, as 'this long day's closing,'it's time we two 'weary English sons go west'ring home'?"

I assured him that this was not only vulgar but also void of wit;and he sulked, while we turned our faces to the west and retracedour former path. Once again the summits of the hills, as we steppedupon them, showed us the lofty grandeur of the Ægean world. Wehalted to examine the wonderful sight that loomed in the sky-spacesto the north of Lemnos. This was the huge brows, fronting theclouds, of the Island of Samothrace. To me they appeared as one longprecipice, from whose top frivolous people (such as Edgar Doe) couldtickle the stars.

"St. Paul left Troas," ventured I, "and came with a straight courseto Samothrace," a little blossom of news which angered Doe, becausehe had not thought of it first. So, after deliberate brain-racking,he went one better with the information:

"The great Greek god, Poseidon, sat on Samothrace, and watched theSiege of Troy. It looks like the throne of a god, doesn't it? Iwonder if the old boy's sitting there now, watching the fight forthe Dardanelles."

As he spoke the sun was falling behind the peaks of Lemnos andnearing the Greek mainland, which revealed itself, through theevening light, in the splendid conical point of Mount Athos. And, atour feet, the loose stones and broken rocks had assumed a pink tinton their facets that looked towards the setting sun. The browsingsheep, too, had enriched their wool with colours, borrowed from thesunset. Everywhere hung the impression that a day was done; overyonder a lonely Greek, side-saddle on his mule, was wending home.

"The sun's going west to Falmouth," said Doe, inflamed by my recentappreciation of his poem. "It'll be there in two hours. Wouldn't Ilike to hang on to one of its beams and go with it!"

"Don't stand there talking such gaff," I said, "but get a move on,if you want to be back in Mudros before nightfall."

We pursued the homeward journey, and suddenly surprised ourselves byemerging above a hill-top and looking down over a mile of undulatingcountry upon the long silver sheet of water that was Mudros Harbour.To us, so high up, its vast shipping—even including the giantOlympic—seemed a collection of toy steamers. And all around theharbour were the white specks of toy tents.

"Our mighty campaign looks, I s'pose, even smaller and more toy-liketo Poseidon, sitting on Samothrace," mused Doe. "What insects weare! 'As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us fortheir sport.'"

Just at that moment "Retreat" was blown in the camps below. It waswith the bugles as with the bells of a great city. One took the leadin proclaiming its message; then another, and yet another joined in,till at last all corroborated the news. And the trumpets and riflesof the French told the same story.

We hurried on, but within a few minutes darkness dropped a curtainover all that we had seen from the hills.

§2

We got home in time to be late for dinner, and as we sheepishlyentered the mess the O.C. Rest Camp cried:

"Oh, here you are! Where have you been? Frantic wires have beenbuzzing all the afternoon for you—priority messages pouring in.You're to proceed forthwith to the Peninsula. Headquarters hadforgotten all about you, so they are thoroughly angry with you."

We sat down and began the soup at once, intending to have dinner,even if it involved the loss of the campaign. Monty explained acrossthe table that he was included in this urgent summons.

"Yes, rather," endorsed the O.C., who was very full of the news,"all East Cheshire Details. Apparently the East Cheshires areholding an awkward position on a place called Fusilier Bluff, andbeing killed like stink by a well-placed whizz-bang gun. They've gotabout fifty men and half an officer left per company. They'rescreaming for reinforcements. Salt and pepper, please. Thanks."

"Where is this Fusilier Bluff, sir?" asked I. "At Suvla or Helles?"

"Haven't the foggiest!" answered the O.C. "The Cheshires always usedto be at Helles, but I daresay they were moved to Suvla for the newlanding there, along with the 29th Division. Fusilier Bluff has onlyjust become notorious. Poor young Doon got his ticket there—samegun."

"We've a score to settle with that gun, Rupert," said Doe.

Next day we dressed for our part on the Peninsula. Doe smiled grimlyas he swung round his neck the cord that dangled two identity discson his breast. "Now there's some point in these things," he said.We filled all the chambers of our revolvers and fixed the weapons onto our belts, wondering what killing men would feel like, and howsoon it would begin. "It'll be curious," Doe suggested, "goingthrough life knowing that you killed a man while you were stillnineteen. Perhaps in Valhalla we'll be introduced to the men we'vekilled. Jove! I'll write a poem about that."

A fatigue party of Turkish prisoners carried our kit down to the"Egyptian Pier," whence we were ferried to the Headquarters ShipAragon. Once aboard, Monty took the lead, seeking out the cabin ofthe Military Landing Officer and presenting to him our orders. Hewas an attractive little person, this M.L.O., and, having glancedover our papers, said: "East Cheshires? Oh, yes. And where are they?Are they at Suvla or Helles?"

Monty said that he hadn't the slightest idea, but imagined it wasthe business of Headquarters to have some notion of a division'swhereabouts.

"East Cheshire Division? Let me see," muttered the M.L.O., chewinghis pencil.

We let him see, with the satisfactory result that he brightened upand said:

"Ah, yes. They're at Suvla, I think."

"How nice!" commented Monty. It seemed a suitable remark.

"Well, anyhow," proceeded the M.L.O., in the relieved manner of onewho has chosen which of two doubtful courses to adopt, and is happyin his choice, "there's a boat going to Suvla to-night. TheRedbreast, I think. I'll make you out a passage for theRedbreast."

He did so, and handed the chit to Monty, who replied:

"Thanks. But supposing the Cheshires are not at Suvla?"

"Why, then," explained the M.L.O., smiling at having an indubitableanswer ready, "they'll be at Helles."

And he beamed agreeably.

Just then there entered the cabin a middle-aged major with amonocle, none other than our old friend, Major Hardy of theRangoon. He fixed us with his monocle and said: "Well, I'm damned!Young Ray! Young Doe! Young Padre!" Immediately there followed afine scene of reunion, in which Monty explained our delay at Mudros;Major Hardy told us that he had been appointed Brigade Major to ourown brigade, his predecessor having been killed on Fusilier Bluff bythe whizz-bang gun; and the M.L.O. shone over all like a benignantangel.

"Ah! Another for the East Cheshires," said he. "Can I have yourname, Major?"

"Hardy," came the answer.

"'Hardy'—let me see," and the M.L.O. ran his finger down a bigNominal Roll. "Harris, Harrison, Hartop, Hastings—no 'Hardy' here,Major. Are you sure it's not Hartop?"

The owner of the name declared that he was bloody sure.

"Well, I may be wrong," acknowledged the M.L.O. "Why, yes—here weare, 'Hardy.' Well, you left yesterday, and are with your unit." Andhe put the Nominal Roll away, as much as to say: "The matter'ssettled, so, as you're there already, you won't need a passage."

"I beg your pardon, damn you," corrected the Major. "I'm in yourfilthy office, seeking a chit to get to the East Cheshires."

"I don't see how that can be," grumbled the M.L.O., so far as such adelightful person was capable of grumbling. "But, of course, theremay be a mistake somewhere."

"Well, perhaps you'll be good enough," suggested Major Hardy, "togive me a chit to proceed to the East Cheshires to look into thematter."

"Oh, certainly," agreed the M.L.O., with that prepossessing smilewhich came to his lips when he had discovered the solution of aproblem. "There are two boats going to the Peninsula to-night, oneto Suvla and the other to Helles. The Redbreast is the one that'sgoing to Suvla, I fancy, and the Ermine to Helles. At any rate,try the Redbreast, Major."

"Yes," interrupted the Major, "but supposing the Redbreastdoesn't go to Suvla—what?"

"Why, then," replied the M.L.O., promptly and brightly, "it'll go toHelles."

This enlightened remark produced such a torrent of oaths from MajorHardy as was only stemmed by the M.L.O.'s assurance that there wasno real doubt about the Redbreast's going to Suvla. We left thecabin to the sound of a long "Ha-ha-ha!" from its engaging occupant,who had been tickled, you see, by the Major's outburst.

We were ferried on a steam-tug to the Redbreast, and climbedaboard. She seemed a funny little smack after the huge Rangoon. Wecould scarcely elbow our way along, so packed was she with drafts ofmen belonging to the Lovat Scouts, the Fife and ForfarshireYeomanry, and the Essex Regiment.

I was standing among the crowd on her deck, when there was a soundof a rolling chain and a slight rocking of the boat, which provokedan indelicate man near me to take off his helmet and pretend to besick in it. There was a rumbling of the engines as their wheelsbegan to revolve, and a throbbing of the Redbreast's heart asthough she found difficulty in getting under way with such a load.Then a sudden and alarming snort from her siren drew cries of"Hooter's gone!" "Down tools, lads!" "Ta-ta, Mudros!" "All aboardfor Dixie!" "Hurry up, hurry up, get upon the deck, Find the nearestgirl, and put your arms around her neck, For the last boat's leavingfor home."

With cheering from the anchored ships that we passed; with a bandplaying somewhere "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond"; with greetingand banter from the Ermine, which was steaming out with us on hervoyage to Helles; and with all these things under an overcast skythat broke frequently into rain, we left Lemnos, the harbour andthe hills, going out through a dulled sunset.

"Put trees on those hills," said Doe, approaching me, "and in thisbad light you could imagine you were going out of the estuary of theFal to the open sea."

"Do you wish you were?" asked I, looking at the hills we had climbedthe day before.

"No. I like the excitement of this. It's the best moment in the warI've had. This is life!"

From the sunset and sounds of the harbour we steamed into thestillness and dark of the open seas. No lights were allowed on thedecks, for the enemy knew all about these nightly trips to Turkey.Singing and shouting were suppressed, and we heard nothing but thenoise of the engines, the splatter of the agitated water as itstruck our hull, and the sound, getting fainter and fainter, of theErmine ploughing to Helles.

"The stage is in darkness," whispered Doe in his fanciful way. "It'sthe changing of the acts."

The rain began to fall in torrents, and the sky periodically was litby flashes of an electric storm. And then we suddenly becameconscious of new flashes playing among those of the lightning.

"The guns?" I murmured.

"Sure thing," answered Doe.

A sharp shiver of delight ran through both our bodies. Our eyes atlast were watching war. To think of it! We were off the world-famousPeninsula!

And it was pitch-darkness, with flashing lights everywhere! FromNavy and Army both, searchlights swept the sea and sky, shutthemselves off, and opened anew. Signals in Morse sparkled withtheir dots and dashes. From the distant trenches star-shells rose inthe air, and seemed to hang suspended for a space, while we caughtthe rapid tick-tick of far-away rifle fire.

"It's a blinkin' firework show," said a Tommy's voice; and Doeannounced in my ear: "Rupert, I'm inspired! I've an idea for a poem.Our lives are a pantomime, and the Genius of the Peninsula is theDemon King; and here we have the flashes and thunder that alwaysillumine the horrors of his cave.... Jumping Jupiter! What's that?"

A tremendous report had gone off near us; a brilliant light hadshown up the lines of a cruiser; a shell had shrieked past us andwhistled away to explode among the Turks; and a loud, and swellingmurmur of amazement and admiration, rising from the Redbreast, hadburst into a thousand laughs.

"Fate laughs at my poem," grumbled Doe.

The rain raced down: and, at about ten o'clock, we learned that, forthe first time in the history of the Redbreast, it would be toorough for anyone to land. We must therefore spend the night aboard,and take the risk of disembarking under the enemy's guns in themorning. So, wooing sleep, we huddled into the chairs of the saloon,and wished for the day. We slept through troubled dreams, and woketo a gathering calm on the sea. As our eager eyes swept the view bydaylight, we found that we were in a semicircular and unshelteredbay, whose choppy water harboured two warships that were desultorilyfiring. Near us a derelict trawler lay half submerged.

The truth broke upon us: we were floating at anchor in Suvla Bay.

CHAPTER X

SUVLA AND HELLES AT LAST

§1

The morning sun was up as we lay in Suvla Bay. It lit the famousbattlefield, so that we saw in a shining picture the hills, up whichthe invading Britons had rushed to win the steps of Sari Bair. Fromover Asia it had risen and, doubtless, beyond the unwon ridges thatblocked our view, the Straits of the Narrows were glistening like asilver ribbon in its light. We would have been dull fools if we hadgazed otherwise than spellbound at this sunlit landscape, where theblood of lost battles was scarcely dry upon the ground.

What surprised us most was the invisibility of the warring armies.On the beaches, certainly, there were tents and stores and menmoving. But the rolling countryside beyond seemed bleak anddeserted. Only occasionally a high-explosive shell threw up a spoutof brown earth, or a burst of shrapnel sent a puff of white smoke tofloat like a Cupid's cloud along the sky. And yet two armies werehidden here, with their rifles, machine-guns, and artillery pointedat each other.

Yes, and yonder invisible Turk had behind him a sun whose rays werepouring down upon our guilty troopship. Any moment we might expectto hear a shell, addressed to us, come whistling down the sun-shaft.We had reached at last the shell-swept zone. From now onwards therecould be no certainty that we would not be alive one moment and deadthe next. We shivered pleasantly.

It was not till noon that a lighter came alongside, and, havingtaken us all aboard, proceeded to make for the beach. All the whilethe Turk left us unmolested, causing us to wonder whether he wereshort of ammunition, or just rudely indifferent to our coming toSuvla or our staying away. Two shells or three, we thought, wouldhave had their courteous aspect. But without greeting of any kindfrom the enemy our lighter rose on the last wave and bumped againstthe jetty. We gathered our equipment, and with egotistical thrillsstepped upon the Gallipoli Peninsula. For the first time we stood inTurkey. We felt in our breasts the pride of the invader.

Monty, as spokesman of our party, led us into the office of theM.L.O., and assured the gentleman that we had come to Suvla to findthe East Cheshires.

"The Cheshires aren't at Suvla," said the M.L.O., with the acerbityof an overworked staff-officer. "They never were, and never will beat Suvla."

"Oh," answered Monty brightly, seeing a vision of his friend, theM.L.O. of the Aragon, "then they'll be at Helles."

The Suvla M.L.O. blasted Monty with a look, and said: "That's theremark of a fool."

"Exactly," agreed Monty; "it was the remark of an M.L.O."

And he explained how, all along, he had conjectured that thepleasant creature on the Aragon had blundered in sending us toSuvla.

"Well, why the devil did you come?" inquired the M.L.O.

"Because," answered Monty, imperturbably, "I wanted to see theworld, and Suvla in particular; and I might not have had anotheropportunity of visiting your delightful bay."

"You mean to say," said the M.L.O., with his eyes on the badgesof the Army Chaplains' Department, "that you deliberately tradedon a mistake in order to get a holiday trip to Suvla? Andstill—ha—still you expect us to go to church."

If he was anxious to discuss the question why men didn't go tochurch, nobody was more ready to meet him than Monty, who therewithsat down upon a box, so as comfortably to do justice to a reallyinteresting topic, I admit I felt a sudden horror lest he shouldhold forth on the Mass and Confession. I went quite cold withapprehension. It's dreadful the embarrassment you elders cause usyoung people lest you say something completely out of place andimpossible. In very fact, youth is the age of embarrassing adults.

What Monty would have said remains a mystery, for at this momentMajor Hardy, who had come in our wake, exploded into the discussion.

"Be damned to you, sir!" he said to the M.L.O., wiping his eyeglassfuriously. "Be damned to you—what! I see nothing funny in beingsent to the wrong front by a simpering, defective idiot on theAragon. Kindly give me a chit to proceed to Helles to-morrow bysome bloody trawler, or something."

"With the utmost pleasure," said the M.L.O.; "Suvla can well be ridof you. You can go to Helles, or Hell, by the 6 A.M. boatto-morrow."

Bless these M.L.O.'s! Were we not indebted to them? The mistake ofone conceded us a visit to Suvla Bay, and the discourteous dismissalof another ensured that we should bear down upon Cape Helles, not,as normally, in a dead darkness, but in the bright light of anOctober morning. I began to understand Monty's unscrupulousopportunism. It would be a wonderful trip, skirting by daylight thecoastline of the Peninsula, till we rounded the point and lookedupon the Helles Beaches, the sacred site of the first and mostmarvellous battle of the Dardanelles campaign. It was a pilgrimageto a shrine that stretched before us on the morrow. The pilgrim'sroute was a path in the blue Ægean from Suvla Bay to Helles Point;and the shrine was the immortal battleground. Enough; let us makethe most of Suvla this day, for to-morrow we should see Helles.

Leaving the office, we sought out some shelter for the night. Wefound a line of deserted dug-outs—little cells cut in the slopinghillside, and scantily roofed by waterproof sheets. It was now latein the afternoon, and no sooner had we thrown down our kit intothese grave-like chambers than the Turk wiped his mouth after histea and opened his Evening Hate. There was the distant boom of ashell. Before we could realise what the sound was, and say "Hallo!they've begun," the missile had exploded among the stores on thebeach. That was my baptism of fire. Without the least hesitation Icopied Major Hardy and Monty, and went flat on my face behind somebrushwood. Only Doe, too proud to take cover, remained standing, andthen blushed self-consciously lest he had appeared to be posing.

"Does this go on for long?" asked Monty of a man who, being nearus, had hurled himself prone across my back.

"Don't know, sir," answered he, cheerily, as he picked himself up."Yesterday they sent down seventy shells, and killed six men andfour mules.... Oh! there it is again."

And our informant took up a position on his stomach, while a secondshell shrieked into the stores.

"They've the range all right," said Monty, as we all got up again.

"Yes, sir. But they can't have many shells left after yesterday'seffort. They're so starvation short that we reckon last night theyhad a surprise camel-load arrive. But ain't it plain, sir, that ifthe Germans could get through to the Turk with ammunition, theycould send down ten thousand shells in a day and blow us into thesea? That's why the 'Uns are thundering along through Servia toTurkey now, sir. They're coming all right.... Oh! there it isagain."

Once more the soldier stretched his length on the ground, and athird shell tore towards us.

"As I was saying, sir," continued our new friend, now on his hindlegs again, and brushing dust from his clothes. "This Suvla army,unless it can get to the top of Sari Bair, is faced withdestruction, and they tell me the Helles army is just the same,unless it can get to the top of Achi Baba. It never will now, sir.And how can we quit without being seen from those hills? The 'Unsknow they've got us trapped. That's why they're coming throughServia, ammunition and all. They'll be on us soon."

"But we'll win," suggested Monty, tentatively.

"O Lord, yes, sir. But not here. Things are going to be interestinghere.... God knows how it'll all end.... Oh! there it is again."

The gun boomed, and the speaker kissed the dust.

I had just decided that it was best to remain recumbent, and Doe,too, had sat down rather sheepishly, when the Turk either ran out ofammunition or felt that he had done all that formality required ofhim, and returned to his hookah in peace.

Knowing that night would fall quickly, we hastened to make ourselvessome supper. Its last mouthfuls we finished in darkness; and, havingnothing further to do, determined to go to bed in our littledug-outs on the hillside. Standing in the blue darkness outsidethese narrow dwelling-places, like lepers among our tombs, we wishedeach other good-night and a good sleep. Then we crawled into ourgraves. Wrapping my knees in my British warm, I disposed myself torest.

But I could not sleep. My mind was too active with thinking that Iwas lying in the historic ground, over which the battle had rolled.As a light in a room keeps a would-be sleeper awake, so the brightglow of my thoughts kept my brain from rest. Here was I on thatamazing Peninsula, towards which I had looked in wonder from thecliffs of Mudros. Around me, and in the earth as I was, the deadmen, more successful than I, were sleeping dreamlessly. On higherslopes the tired army held the fire-trenches, with its faces andrifles still turned bravely landward and upward. Above them theTurks hung to the extremities of their territory with the sametenacity that we should show in defending Kent or Cornwall. Behindthe Turk ran the silver Narrows, the splendid trophy of the presenttourney. And, as I had been reminded that afternoon, far away theGerman armies were battling through the corridors of Servia thatthey might come and destroy the invaders of Suvla and Helles.

To increase my wakefulness the rapid fire of rifle and machine-gun,which had been almost unheard during the day-time, began with thefall of darkness, and continued sporadic through the night. Like thechirp of a great cricket, it was doubly insistent in the silenthours. The artillery, too, was more restless than it had been in thelight of day. Seemingly all were nervous of the dark.

It is ever difficult to sleep in a strange bed. I found myselfopening my eyes and looking up at my oil-sheet roof. So scanty wasit that it left apertures, through which I could see the starsshining in a perfect sky. I shut my eyes and gave rein to mythoughts, gradually elaborating the wild dream of a thinker who wasunaware that he had at last dropped off to sleep. It seemed to methat the whole army at Suvla was that night storming the hills thatintervened between us and the silver Narrows. I was rushing with theattackers, while the shells roared and pitched harmlessly among us,and at length I was standing on the summit of Sari Bair, whichshowed the Narrows under the moon and stars. The Narrows seen atlast! There, look, was the waterway to Constantinople. I waitedpatiently to see the Navy pour up it in triumphant procession.Beside me was the stranger who had spoken to us in the afternoon,and I said to him: "The coast seems clear. Let's go down and swimthe Hellespont, where Leander and Byron swam." But at that momentthere was a loud explosion near us, and a sound as of particles ofearth falling upon an oil-sheet roof.

Conscious that this tremendous report was not the creation of atroubled dreamer, but something real, which had worked itself intothe texture of my dreams, I lifted heavy eyelids, and learned that astray night-shell from the Turkish lines had burst very close to mydug-out, and the debris was tumbling on the roof.... And we werestill low down on the slope to victory.

After that, sleep passed from me, and I watched the dawn break.

§2

At six o'clock the next morning we were all on the little trawler,due to leave for Cape Helles. Helles! The stirring, pregnant namewas a thing to toy with. Suvla was a great word, but Helles was agreater. So farewell to Suvla now. We must also see Helles.

"To Helles," said the hardened skipper, with the same dull unconcernthat a cabman might show in saying "To Hyde Park."

The workmanlike boat got under way. As I gazed from its side towardsthe Suvla that we were leaving, the whole line of the Peninsula cameinto panorama before me. The sun, just awake, bathed a long, wavingskyline that rose at two points to dominant levels. One was SariBair, the stately hill which stood inviolate, although an army haddashed itself against its fastnesses. The other, lower down theskyline, was Achi Baba, as impregnable as her sister, Sari Bair. Thestory of the campaign was the story of these two hills.

For perfect charm, I recall no trip to equal this cruise betimes inthe sparking Ægean. Our trawler was travelling with the smoothnessof a gondola on a Venetian canal. And the voyage, sunny andrefreshing in itself, was given an added glamour, by reason of theshrine to which it was a pilgrimage. For, whether I could believe itor not, we were steaming fast to Helles.

My sensations, as we gaily bore through the sea upon the hallowedsite, were those of one who awaits the rise of a curtain upon afamous drama. I sprang my imagination to the alert position, that Imight not miss one thrill, when we should enter the bay whose watersplayed on W Beach. Conceive it: there would meet my gaze a stretchof lapping water, a width of beach, and a bluff hill; and I mustsay: "Here were confused battle, and blood filtering through theground. There was agony here, and quivering flesh. Here the promisesof straight limbs, keen eyes, and clear cheeks were cancelled in aspring morning. Our schoolfellows died here, Stanley, and Lancelot,and Moles White. Hither a thousand destinies converged upon thebeach, and here they closed."

The boat was approaching a rounded headland. In a second the visionwould be before me. Come now, could I think all these things—couldI realise them, as we entered the bay? I found not. Before I hadgripped half the thrilling ideas that were the gift of the moment,we were moored against the jetty at W Beach, and I was steppingashore to take my part in the last chapters of the Gallipoli story.

CHAPTER XI

AN ATMOSPHERE OF SHOCKS AND SUDDEN DEATH

§1

One evening, three days later, I was sitting, inconceivably bored,in my new dug-out on the notorious Fusilier Bluff. This dug-out wasa recess, hewn in damp, crumbling soil, with a frontage built ofsand-bags. Its size was that of an anchorite's cell, and anyabnormal movement or extra loud noise within it brought the stonesand earth in showers down the walls. Indeed, the walls of my newhome so far resembled the walls of Jericho that it only required ashout to bring them down upon the floor. In the sand-bag front weretwo apertures, called the door and the window, which overlooked theÆgean Sea. For this reason the name "Seaview" had been painted abovethe door in lively moments by the preceding tenant, whose grave wasvisible lower down the Bluff. I watched the night gathering on thesea, while over my home the whizz-bang gun—that evil genius of theplace, and the murderer of Jimmy Doon—spat its high-velocityshells.

I was alone. The C.O. of the East Cheshires, who did not seem tohave grasped that Doe and I were friends, had attached me to DCompany, which was in reserve on the slopes of Fusilier Bluff, andDoe to B Company, which was holding the fire-trenches. The man was afool, of course, but what could a subaltern say to a colonel? AndMonty, too, had gone to live by himself. Finding that his new parishwas extensive and scattered, he had abandoned Fusilier Bluff, and,choosing the most central spot, had built himself a sand-bag hovelsomewhere in the Eski Line. Struth! Everything was the limit.

I went to bed. And it was after I was deeply submerged in dreamsthat I awoke with a start, for someone seemed to be telling me toget up and dress, as there was an alarm afloat. A voice was saying:"All the troops have been ordered to stand to, sir. There's anattack expected. The Adjutant sent me to call you."

"Who are you?"

"Adjutant's orderly, 10th East Cheshires, sir."

"Thanks." Hurriedly dressing, I went out and found that the Bluff,now white in the moonlight, was lined with men in full equipment.Orders were being shouted, and telephones were buzzing.

"D Company, fall in."

"See that there are two men to every machine-gun at once."

D Company, with myself attached to it, left the Bluff and filedthrough a communication trench to the firing line. Here every manwas a silent sentry, his bayonet shining in the moonlight. Doe,whose eyes were bright with excitement, was walking hastily up anddown the company front, looking over the parapet, giving orders in afine whisper, and pretending in a variety of ways that he wasuncommonly efficient at this sort of surprise attack. I touched hissleeve and asked:

"What's it all about?"

"Heaven knows! A sergeant spotted some trees waving in front of themoon, thought they were Turks, and gave the alarm. He saw trees asmen walking. Sorry. Can't stay."

I wandered along the trench, seeing the men of my platoon properlydisposed so as to stiffen the resistance of B Company. Then Ireturned for the latest news of the crisis to where Doe wasconversing with an unknown officer. They were recalling how they hadonce travelled in the train together from Paddington to Falmouth,and never seen each other again till this moment. Doe was praisingthe lovely country through which the Great Western Railwaypassed—Somerset, and the White Horse Vale, and the beautifulstretch of water at Dawlish; or the red cliffs of Devon, where thetrain ran along the coast. Some of the red earth of Gallipoli, hesaid, reminded him of Devon's red loam.

Evidently the Turkish attack was not going to materialise. I stoodupon the firing-step and looked over the parapet. In the moonlight Icould see the black sand-bags of the Turks' front line, and thedesolate waste of No Man's Land.... Then my hand sprang to the buttof my revolver. Something had moved in No Man's Land. "Look out!"I said. "They're coming!" just as from behind a bit of rising grounda figure rose on to its hands and knees. I pointed my revolver atit, and pulled the trigger. The figure collapsed, and rolledforwards till its progress was arrested by a rocky projection, overwhich it finally lay, doubled up like a bolster. As it fell my heartgave a sickening leap, either of excitement or of fright.

At once the whole of the company front opened rapid fire. A fewthings seemed to fall about in No Man's Land, and I saw some figurespass across the moon as they scurried back to their trenches.

"Cease fire!" ordered the O.C. firing line. "Merely a reconnaissanceraid. Silly trouts, these Turks."

And Doe came up to me, saying almost enviously:

"You've killed your man, Rupert. Congratulations."

Without answering I stood on the firing-step again, and looked atthe limp form of my victim. It was dead beyond question, shapelessand horrible.

I took my platoon back to the Bluff, dismissed it, and going up tomy dug-out door, stood there for a moment thinking. Since leaving itan hour ago I had killed a man.

"You mustn't rest till you've slaughtered a Turk," our new C.O. hadsaid, for he was an apostle of the offensive spirit. "Then, if theykill you, you'll at least have taken a life for a life. And any morethat you kill before they finish you off will be clear gain for KingGeorge."

Not wishing to go to bed yet, I went back to the firing line, andlooked over our sand-bags once more. The body was still there,shapeless and horrible, and as limp as a half-empty sack of coals.

§2

Some of the officers of B and D Companies were drinking together thefollowing day in a hole on the Bluff, when the Brigade BombingOfficer burst in among us, and seized a mug.

"Thanks. I will," he said. "Just a spot of whisky. Well, here's toyou. Cheerioh!"

He drank half the mug, and addressed me.

"Ray, you have found favour in the sight of the General. He wantsyou for his A.D.C., and won't be happy till he gets you. He thinksyou a pretty and a proper child and fairly clean. What abaht it?"

"Good Lord," said I. "I don't know what an A.D.C. is! What do I do?"

"Oh, see that the old gentleman is fed. And cut out the saucy girlsfrom 'La Vie Parisienne,' and decorate the mess walls with them.And—and all that sort of thing."

"Go on, Ray," urged Doe. "Of course you'll be it. Put him down forthe job. I wish the old general had fallen in love with me.'

"I don't mind trying it," I said. "Anything for a change."

"Right," replied the Bombing Officer. "Ray, having been four dayswith a company of the East Cheshires, feels in need of a change. Hedesires to better himself. Now for the next point. I'm chucking thisBombing Officer stunt. It's too dangerous. Both my predecessors werekilled, and yesterday the Turk threw a bomb at me. Now, is thereanybody tired of his life and laden with his sin? Anyone want tocommit suicide? Anyone feel a call? Anyone want to do the bloodyhero, and be Brigade Bombing Officer?"

Doe blushed at once.

"I'll have a shot at it.... Anything for a change," he addedapologetically.

"That's the spirit that made England great!" said the BombingOfficer. "I do like keenness. Splendid! Ray goes to the softest jobin the Army, and Doe, stout fellow, to the damnedst. Thanks: justanother little spot. Cheerioh!"

In name my new character was that of Brigade Ammunition Officer, butit amounted, as the Bombing Officer had said, to being A.D.C. to theBrigadier. I was entirely miserable in it. Painfully shy of the oldgeneral and his staff-officers, I never spoke at meals in the solemnHeadquarters Mess unless I had carefully rehearsed before what I wasgoing to say. And, when I said it, I saw how foolish it sounded.

And Major Hardy—who, you will remember, was our Brigade Major—usedto be unnecessarily funny about my youth, fixing me with his monocleover the evening dinner-table and asking me if I were allowed to situp to dinner at home. I imagine he thought he was humorous.

Grand old Major Hardy! I must not speak lightly of him here. It isonly because I have now to finish his story that I have mentioned myregrettable declension on to the staff.

Major Hardy had not been ten days on the Peninsula before he madehis reputation. His monocle, his "what," and his rich maledictionswere admired and imitated all along the Brigade front. From FusilierBluff to Stanley Street it was agreed that Major Foolhardy was aSahib. Twice a day every bay in the trench system was cursed by him."God! give me ten Turks and a dog, and I'd capture the whole of thissector any hour of the day or night," and his head was over theparapet in broad daylight, examining the Turkish peepholes. It was acommon saying that he would be hit one fine morning.

The morning came. The Signal Officer and I were sitting in theHeadquarters Mess, sipping an eleven o'clock cherry brandy, andwondering why the General and the Brigade Major had not returnedfrom their tour of the trenches. Headquarters were situated in GullyRavine, that prince among ravines on the Peninsula. From my place Icould see the gully floor, which was the dry bed of a water-course,winding away between high walls of perpendicular cliffs or steep,scrub-covered slopes, as it pursued its journey, like some colossaltrench, towards the firing line. Down the great cleft, while Ilooked, a horseman came riding rapidly. He was an officer, with aslight open wound in his chin, and he rode up to our door and said:"Hardy's hit. A hole in the face."

He was followed by the General, whose clothes and hands weresplashed with Major Hardy's blood. The General told us what hadhappened. He had been talking to Hardy and some others on FusilierBluff, when the infamous whizz-bang gun—that messenger of Satansent to buffet us—shot a shell whose splinters took the Major inthe face and lungs. He dropped, saying "Dammit, I'm hit, what,"and was now being taken in a dying condition down Gully Ravine tothe Field Ambulance.

It surprised me what an everyday affair this tragedy seemed. Therewere expressions of sorrow, but no hush of calamity. Jests were madeat lunch, and all ate as heartily as usual. "Well, he lasted tendays," said the Brigadier, "which is more than a good many havedone."

Personally, I found myself repeating, in my wool-gathering way, theword "Two." Already two out of the five who sat down to lunchtogether that first day on board the Rangoon had been killed—and,for that matter, by the same gun. "Two." "The knitting women countedtwo." Ah! that was what I was thinking of. The knitting women hadknitted two off the strength of that little company. Monty, Doe, andmyself were left. I wondered which of those would have fallen whenthe knitting women should count "Three."

It was not difficult to prophesy. Monty, though he was asventuresome as any combatant, could never quite share the dangers ofthe men who lived in the trenches. His dug-out, back in the EskiLine, was safe from everything but a howitzer shell. And I—ye gods!I was comparatively secure, loafing about in the softest job in theArmy. Everything pointed to Doe as Number Three.

I thought of our unbroken partnership, and decided—as much in rashdefiance as in loyalty to my friend—that I would ask to be relievedof my position as Ammunition Officer and allowed to return to mybattalion. The permission was granted. And oh! I cannot explain it,but it was good to be back with my company after the enervatingexperience of staff-life. And, better still, now that Doe was nolonger a platoon commander but Brigade Bombing Officer, he couldlive where he liked, and had arranged to share my dug-out—thatdelectable villa on Fusilier Bluff known as "Seaview." Really, underthese conditions, the Peninsula, we felt, would be quite "swish."

CHAPTER XII

SACRED TO WHITE

§1

On a certain morning Doe and I in our dug-out on Fusilier Bluff feltthe pull and the fascination, coming over five miles of scrub, ofthe magical Cape Helles. It was but a score of weeks since the firstinvaders had stormed its beaches: and we wanted to drink again ofthe romance that charged the air. So, being free for a time, wewalked to the brow overlooking V Beach, and stood there, letting thebreeze blow on our faces, and thinking of the British Army that blewin one day like a gale from the sea.

The damage wrought by that tornado was everywhere visible. Near uswere the ruins of a lighthouse. In old days it had glimmered fordistant mariners, who pointed to it as the Dardanelles light. But,at the outbreak of war, the Turk had closed his Dardanelles and putout the lamp. He would never kindle it again, for the QueenElizabeth, or a warship of her kidney, had lain off shore andreduced the lighthouse to these white stones. Across theamphitheatre of the bay were the village and broken forts of SeddelBahr; and, aground at this point, the famous old hulk, the RiverClyde. You remember—who could forget?—how they turned this vesselinto a modern Horse of Troy, cramming its belly with armed men,running it ashore, and then opening square doors in its hull-sidesand letting loose the invaders—while the plains of Old Troy lookeddown from over the Hellespont. What a litter old Mother Clydecarried in her womb that day! From where we stood we could see thosesquare doors, cut in her sides, through which the troops and rushedinto the bullet-hail: we could see, too, the semicircular beach,where they had attempted to land, and the ribbon of blue water inwhich so many, weighted with their equipment, had sunk and died.

And what was that thing a few cable lengths out, a rusty ironsomething, rising from the water, and being lapped by the incomingripples? It was the keel of the old Majestic, which lay there,deck downwards, on the ocean bed.

"It's too pathetic!" exclaimed the sensitive Doe. "Let's go andvisit the Clyde. Fancy, old Moles White was in that boat."

We dropped down from the headland into V Beach Bay, and, in doingso, passed the limit of the British zone and trespassed upon Frenchterritory. The slope, from the beach upward, was as alive withFrench and Senegalese as a cloven ant-hill is alive with ants. Thestores of the whole French army seemed accumulated in theneighbourhood. There was an atmosphere of French excitability, verydifferent from the stillness of the British Zone. Stepping from theBritish Zone into the French was like turning suddenly from thequiet of Rotten Row into the bustle of the Boulevard des Italiens.It was prenez-garde and attention là! depeches-vous and pardon,m'sieu, and sacré nom de dieu! before we got through all thesehearty busy-bodies and drew near the hull of the Clyde.

With unwitting reverence we approached. I'll swear I was within anace of removing my hat, and that, had I talked to Doe, I should havespoken in a whisper. It was like visiting a church. Look, there bythe square doors were the endless marks of machine-gun bullets thathad swept the men who tried to leave the boat for the shore. God!they hadn't a dog's chance. If those bullet indentations meantanything, they meant that the man who left the square door was luckyif he got ashore with less than a dozen bullets in his flesh.

We stepped on to the gangway that led to the nearest of the doorsand hurried up to it, catching something of the "Get back—getback!" sensation of those who had been forced by the bullets towithdraw into the hold. A huge hold it showed itself to be when webowed our heads and stepped into it through the square door. Yes,they could cram battalions here. What a hive the Clyde was whenthey hurled it ashore! And what a swarm of bees it housed! In thishold, now so silent and empty, what emotions throbbed that day!

"Poor old White!" murmured Doe. "He got ashore well enough, andwasn't killed till the fighting on the high ground. By Jove, Rupert!we'll search the Peninsula from here to Fusilier Bluff for hisgrave. Come on."

We left the comparative darkness of the hold, and stepped throughthe square door, that had been so deadly an exit for hundreds, intothe bright daylight. At once there was given us a full view of VBeach, with the sea sparkling as it broke upon the shingle. The airall about was strangely opalescent. Seddel Bahr shone in the sun, asonly a white Eastern village can. The hills rising from the beachlooked steep and difficult, but sunlit and shimmering. Everythingshimmered as a result of the sudden contrast from the darkness ofthe hold. Even so must the scene have flashed upon the eyes of theinvaders as they issued from the sides of the Clyde. For many ofthem, how quickly the bright light went out!

We had hardly entered the ruined streets of Seddel Bahr before ashell screamed into the village and burst with a deafening explosionin a house, whose walls went up in a volcano of dust and stones.

"Asiatic Annie!" we both said, at once and in unison.

For all of us knew the evil reputation of Asiatic Annie—that largegun, safely tucked away in the blue hills of Asia, who lobbed hershells—a seven-mile throw—over the Straits on to the shores ofCape Helles—a mischievous old lady, who delighted in being theplague of the Beaches.

"If Asiatic Annie is going to begin," said Doe, "we'll haveimportant business elsewhere. Hurry on. We're going to find White'sgrave."

To get from Seddel Bahr to Fusilier Bluff it was necessary to crossdiagonally the whole of the Helles sector. There lay before us along walk over a dusty, scrub-covered plateau, every yard of whichwas a yard of battlefield and overspread with the litter of battles.This red earth, which, when the Army first arrived, was garnishedwith grass and flowers, groves, and vineyards, was now beaten bythousands of feet into a hard, dry drill-ground, where, here andthere, blasted trees stood like calvaries against the sky. The grassresembled patches of fur on a mangy skin. The birds, which seemed torevel in the excitements of war, soared and swept over thedevastated tableland. Northward from our feet stretched thisplateau of scarecrow trees, till it began to incline in a gentlerise, and finally met the sky in the summit of Achi Baba. That wasthe whole landscape—a plateau overlooked by a gentle hill.

And here on this sea-girt headland the land-fight had been fought.No wonder the region was covered with the scars and waste of war.Our journey took us past old trenches and gun-positions; disusedtelephone lines and rusting, barbed wire; dead mules, scatteredcemeteries, and solitary graves.

And not a grave did we pass without examining it to see if it borethe name of White. Our progress, therefore, was very slow, for, likehighwaymen, these graves held us up and bade us stand and inquire ifthey housed our friend. Whenever we saw an isolated cross somedistance away, we left our tracks to approach it, anxious not topass, lest this were he. And then, quite unexpectedly, we came upontwenty graves side by side under one over-arching tree, which borethe legend: "Pink Farm Cemetery." And Doe said:

"There it is, Rupert."

He said it with deliberate carelessness, as if to show that he wasone not easily excited by sudden surprises.

"Where—where?" I asked.

"There—'Lieutenant R. White, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.'"

"Good Lord!" I muttered: for it was true. We had walked right on tothe grave of our friend. His name stood on a cross with those of sixother officers, and beneath was written in pencil the famousepitaph:

The perfect words went straight to Doe's heart.

"Roop," he said, "if I'm killed you can put those lines over me."

I fear I could not think of anything very helpful to reply.

"They are rather swish," I murmured.

CHAPTER XIII

"LIVE DEEP, AND LET THE LESSER THINGS LIVE LONG"

§1

One thing I shall always believe, and it is that Doe found on thePeninsula that intense life, that life of multiplied sensations,which he always craved in the days when he said: "I want to havelived."

You would understand what I mean if you could have seen this BrigadeBombing Officer of ours hurling his bombs at a gentleman whom hecalled "the jolly old Turk." Generally he threw them with a jest onhis lips. "One hundred and two. One hundred and three," he wouldsay. "Over she goes, and thank the Lord I'm not in the oppositetrench. BANG! I told you so. Stretcher-bearers for the Turks,please." Or he would hurl the bomb high into the air, so that itburst above the enemy like a rocket or a star-shell. He would blow along whistle, as it shot skyward, and say "PLONK!" as it explodedinto a shower of splinters.

For Doe was young and effervescing with life. He enjoyed himself,and his bombers enjoyed him as their officer. Everybody, in fact,enjoyed Edgar Doe.

In these latter days the gifted youth had suddenly discovered thatall things French were perfect. Gone were the days of classicalelegancies. Doe read only French novels which he borrowed fromPierre Poilu at Seddel Bahr.

And why? Because they knew how to live, ces français. They liveddeeply, and felt deeply, with their lovely emotionalism. They ateand drank learnedly. They suffered, sympathised, and loved, alwaysdeeply. They were bons viveurs, in the intensest meaning of thewords. "They live, they live." And because of this, his spiritualhome was in France. "You English," said he, "vous autres anglais,with your damned un-emotionalism, empty your lives of spiritualexperience: for emotion is life, and all that's interesting in lifeis spiritual incident. But the French, they live!"

He even wrote a poem about the faith which he had found, and startedto declaim it to me one night in our little dug-out, "Seaview":

"Yes, Roop, living through war is living deep. It's crowded,glorious living. If I'd never had a shell rush at me I'd never haveknown the swift thrill of approaching death—which is a wonderfulsensation not to be missed. If I'd never known the shock of seeingsudden death at my side, I'd have missed a terribly wonderful thing.They say music's the most evocative art in the world, but, sacrénom de dieu, they hadn't counted the orchestra of a bombardment.That's music at ten thousand pounds a minute. And if I'd not heardthat, I'd never have known what it is to have my soul drawn out ofme by the maddening excitement of an intensive bombardment.And—and, que voulez-vous, I have killed!"

"Hm!" muttered I. He was too clever for me, but I loved him in hisscintillating moments.

"Tiens, if I'm knocked out, it's at least the most wonderfuldeath. It's the deepest death."

I laughed deprecatingly.

"Oh, I'm resigned to the idea," he pursued. "It's more probable thanimprobable. Sooner or later. Tant va la cruche à l'eau qu' à la finelle se casse."

"Tant—'aunt,'" thought I. "Va—'goes.' La cruche—'thecrust.' Qu' à la fin elle se casse." And I said aloud: "I've gotit! 'Aunt goes for the crust at the water, into which, in fine, shecasts herself.'"

"No," corrected Doe, looking away from me wistfully andself-consciously. "'The pitcher goes so often to the well that atlast it is broken.'"

§2

About this time the great blizzard broke over Gallipoli. On the lastSunday in November I awoke, feeling like iced chicken, to learn thatthe blizzard had begun. It was still dark, and the snow was beingdriven along by the wind, so that it flew nearly parallel with theground, and clothed with mantles of white all the scrub that opposedits onrush. This morning only did the wild Peninsula look beautiful.But its whiteness was that of a whited sepulchre. Never before hadit been so mercilessly cruel. For now was opening the notoriousblizzard that should strike down hundreds with frost-bite, and drownin their trenches Turks and Britons alike.

It was freezing—freezing. The water in our canvas buckets frozeinto solid cakes of ice, which we hewed out with pickaxes and kickedabout like footballs. And all the guns stopped speaking. No more washeard the whip-crack of a rifle, nor the rapid, crisp, unintelligentreport of a machine-gun. Fingers of friend and foe were too numbedto fire. An Arctic silence settled upon Gallipoli.

And yet I remember the first day of the blizzard as a day of glowingthings. For on the previous night I had read in Battalion Ordersthat I was to be Captain Ray. And so, this piercing morning, I couldgo out into the blizzard with three stars on my shoulders. WithGallipoli suddenness I had leapt into this exalted rank, while Doe,a more brilliant officer, remained only a Second Lieutenant. Forhim, as a specialist, there was no promotion. For me, no sooner hadmy O.C. Company been buried alive by the explosion of a Turkishmine, and his second-in-command gone sick with dysentery, than I,the next senior though only nineteen, was given the rank of ActingCaptain. And Doe, always most generous when most jealous, had beenprofuse in his congratulations.

I confess that not even the hail, with its icy bite, could spoil theglow which I felt in being Captain Ray. I walked along my companyfront, behind parapets massed with snow, to have a look at the menof my command. All these lads with the chattering lips—lads fromtwenty to forty years old—were mine to do what I liked with. Theywere my family—my children. And I would be a father to them.

And when, at the end of my inspection, a shivering post corporal putinto my hands a letter addressed by my mother to 2nd-Lieut. R. Ray,I delighted to think how out-of-date she was, and how I mustenlighten her at once on the correct method of addressing her son. Iwould do it that day, so that she might have opportunities ofwriting "Capt. Ray." For one never knew: some unpleasantly seniorperson might come along and take to himself my honourable rank.

I seized the letter and hurried home to our dug-out. Doe was alreadyin possession of his mail, so, having wrapped ourselves in blanketsto defeat the polar atmosphere, we crouched over a smoking oil-stoveand read our letters.

I was the first to break a long silence.

"Really," I said, "Mother's rather sweet. Listen to this:—

"'Rupert, I had such a shock yesterday. I heard the postman's knock, which always frightens me. I picked up a long, blue envelope, stamped "War Office." Oh, my heart stood still. I went into my bedroom, and tried to compose myself to break the envelope. Then I asked my new maid to come and be with me when I opened it. After she had arrived, I said a prayer that all might be well with you. Then I opened it: and, Rupert, it was only your Commission as 2nd Lieutenant arriving a year late. Oh, I went straight to church and gave thanks!'"

Doe gazed into the light of the oil-stove.

"The dear, good, beautiful woman!" he said.

And so it is that the famous blizzard carries with it two glowingmemories: the one, my promotion to Captain's rank; the other, thesudden arrival of my mother's letter like a sea-gull out of a storm.Her loving words threw about me, during the appalling conditions ofthe afternoon, an atmosphere of England. And, when in the bitingnight our elevated home was quiet under the stars, and Doe and Iwere rolled up in our blankets, I was quite pleased to find himdisposed to be sentimental.

"I've cold feet to-night," he grumbled. "Roll on Peace, and apassage home. Let's cheer ourselves up by thinking of the firstdinner we'll have when we get back to England. Allons, I'll beginwith turtle soup."

"And a glass of sherry," added I from my pillow.

"Then, I think, turbot and white sauce."

"Good enough," I agreed, "and we'll trifle with the wing of a fowl."

"Two cream buns for sweets," continued the Brigade Bombing Officer,"or possibly three. And fruit salad. Ah, mon dieu, que c'estbeau!"

"And a piece of Stilton on a sweet biscuit," suggested the Captainof D Company, "with a glass of port."

"Yes," conceded the Bombing Officer, "and then café noir, and anAbdulla No. 5 in the arm-chair. Sapristi! isn't it cold?" Heturned round sulkily in his bed. "If it's like this to-morrow Ishan't get up—no, not if Gladys Cooper comes to wake me."

So he dropped off to sleep.... And, with Doe asleep, I can say thatto which I have been leading up. Always before the war I used tothink forced and exaggerated those pictures which showed the soldierin his uniform, sleeping on the field near the piled arms, andsuggested, by a vision painted on the canvas, that his dreams wereof his hearth and loved ones. But I know now of a certainCaptain-fellow, who, on that first night of the blizzard, after hehad received a letter from his mother, dreamt long and fully offriends in England, awaking at times to find himself lying on alofty wild Bluff, and falling off to sleep again to continue dreamsof home.

CHAPTER XIV

THE NINETEENTH OF DECEMBER

§1

The grand incident in the last act of the Gallipoli Campaign—thegrand motif—was the Germans' successful break through Servia.They had driven their corridor from Central Europe through Servia toConstantinople; and, for all we knew, the might of Germany in menand guns were pouring down it. Of course they were coming; they mustcome. Never had the generals of Germany so fine an opportunity ofdestroying the British Divisions that languished at Suvla andHelles. What chance had the Haughty Islanders now of escaping?The wintry storms were already cutting their frail line ofcommunications by sea, and smashing up their miserable jetties onthe beaches. The plot should unravel simply. The German-Turk combinewould attack in force, and the British, unable to escape, wouldeither surrender or, in good Roman style, die fighting.

We knew the Germans were coming. When the blizzard rolled away andleft behind a glorious December, we began to hear their new gunsthrobbing on the distant Suvla front. Doubtless more guns wererumbling along the streets of Constantinople, and troopsconcentrating in its squares. They were out for the biggest victoryof the Central Empires since Tannenberg. Six divisions from Suvlaand four from Helles would be a good day's bag. Perhaps the Turkswere not without pity for the tough little British Divisions that,depleted, exhausted, and unreinforced, lay at their mercy on theextremities of the Gallipoli Peninsula.

We knew they were coming, and joked about it.

"It's getting distinctly interesting, Captain Ray," said Doe, as wesat drinking tea in Monty's dug-out in the Eski Line. "I say, giveme a decent funeral, won't you?"

"We shan't bury you," answered Monty unpleasantly. "We shall put youon the incinerator."

"If the worst comes to the worst, I shall swim for it," said I,always conceited on this point. "It'll only be a few miles easygoing, in this gorgeous December weather, from Gully Beach toImbros."

"But, au serieux," continued the picturesque Doe, "do you realisethat this is December, 1915, and we shall probably never see theyear of grace 1916? Damned funny, Captain Ray, isn't it?"

"Don't be so romantic and treacly," retorted Monty. "You'll donothing heroic. You'll just march down to W Beach and get on a boatand sail away. There's going to be some sort of evacuation, I'msure. They've cleared the hospitals at Alexandria and Malta, andordered every hospital ship in the world to lie off the Peninsulaempty. They are prepared for twenty thousand casualties."

"Yes," agreed I, "and, as there are no reinforcements, it can't meana big advance, so it must mean a big retreat. There's nothing tobellyache about. We're going to evacuate, praise be to Allah!"

"Oh, try not to be foolish, Captain Ray," returned Doe impatiently."Have you been so long on this cursed Peninsula without knowing thatwe couldn't evacuate Suvla without being seen from Sari Bair, norHelles without being seen from Achi Baba? And, directly the jollyold Turk saw us quitting, he, and the whole German army, andLudendorff, would stream down and massacre us as we ran. We'd wantevery man for a rearguard action to hold them off. The bally thing'simpossible."

"Well, we did the impossible in getting on to the Peninsula," put inMonty, "and we shall probably do the impossible in getting off.Besides, not even Turks can see at night."

"That's all very fine," rejoined the lively youth. "But theimpossible landing was done by the grandest Division in history,when they were up to full strength. Now our divisions are jaded anddone for. Besides, only one army could get away. Even if the Suvlacrowd did effect a surprise escape, the Turk would see to it thatthe Helles mob didn't repeat the performance. Our Staff would haveto sacrifice one army for the other. And, as the Suvla army isbigger than ours, they'd sacrifice us for a certainty. So cheer up,and don't be so damned miserable."

"Oh, well," said Monty, refilling Doe's cup. "Let us eat, drink, andbe merry, for to-morrow we die."

Doe lifted up the mug to toast his host.

"Morituri te salutamus," he said, and out of his abounding spiritsbegan to sing:

§2

And amid all this speculation on Helles, there came suddenly arumour that, so far from the Turks attacking us, our whole line wasabout to assume the offensive and move forward. This was a mereangel's whisper one morning: by the afternoon it had blown like adust-drive into every dug-out.

It's a good rule, my friends who shall fight the next war, if youwant to know the secrets about a forthcoming attack, always to askthe padre. He is the rumour-merchant of the fighting army. And Montywas no exception. Directly the strange rumour reached the Eski Line,Monty busied himself tapping every source for more detailedinformation.

First he inquired of the Battalion Intelligence Officer whetherthere were anything reliable in this talk of an imminent attack.Intelligence nodded its head, as much as to say: "I've promised thatnot a breath of it shall leave my lips, but—" Well, Intelligencenodded his head.

Then, on another occasion, the Quartermaster, having just returnedfrom Ordnance (where they know everything), looked a profoundlysinister look at Monty, and said:

"They're going to keep you busy shortly."

"What, a show on?" asked Monty hypocritically.

"Yes, some stunt—some stunt. But don't know anything about it."

Next Monty was at Divisional Signals (always a well-informed andoracular body), who said they supposed he knew there would be verylittle opportunity for Divine Service on Sunday.

"You mean," said he, with brutal plainness, "that this beastlyattack is fixed for Sunday."

"Now, nobody said that," was the reply. "But take it from us that onSunday your men will be too busy parading for other purposes thanfor Divine Service. Strictly on the Q.T., of course."

The same day at the Bombing School Monty found but one subject ofconversation.

"It'll be the stickiest thing we've had for some time, as ourselves,the Scotties, and the French are all involved in it. Your people,the East Cheshires, are going over at Fusilier Bluff, after we'veblown up a huge mine. Their Brigade Bombers are going to occupy thecrater. But, of course, mum's the word."

Lastly, Monty held mysterious communion with my sergeant-major, awonderful co*ckney humorist, who possessed the truth on all points.As far as Fusilier Bluff was concerned, said he, the attack was aneffort to reach and destroy the terrible whizz-bang gun. It wasbelieved that the gun's location was in a nullah where its dump ofammunition was inaccessible to our artillery. Only bombers couldreach it. So they were going to blow up a mine of 570 pounds ofammonel, and the bombers, supported by the infantry, were going torush for the crater. From the crater they would sally forth andreach the gun. "And glory be to Gawd," concluded the sergeant-majorpiously, "that I ain't a bomber."

§3

On the eve of the attack Doe and I were in our dug-out discussingwhat part the C.O. would allot us in the operation, when an orderlyappeared at the door.

"Brigade Bombing Officer here, sir?" he asked, saluting.

"Sure thing," said Doe.

"The C.O. wants to see you at once, sir."

Doe shrugged his shoulders. "Quand on parle du loup, on en voie lequeue. Now we shall hear something." And he followed the orderly.

A trifle jealous, I awaited his return. He came back with joysparkling in his eyes—how far assumed I know not—and, flinginghimself down on a box, cried: "Rupert, the show in this sector ismy show! They're going to blow up the jolly old mine; and theminute it goes up I've got to take the bombers over the top andoccupy the crater. Then, if I think it possible, I'm to go furtherforward to the whizz-bang gun and blow it into the middle of thenext war. Voyez-vous, they know they've a competent young officerin charge of the bombers. Rupert, we shall not stay long in thecrater. And, if you please, the C.O. wishes to see Captain Rayimmediately."

"Which means I'm for it too," said I, as I went out.

The C.O. explained my share. I was to take over all my company andcapture the trenches on the right of the crater. On capturing them,I was to open a covering fire to enable the bombers to go furtherforward. A similar move was being made by B Company on the bombers'left. In short, a wedge was being driven into the Turkish line, andthe point of the wedge—Doe's bombing party—was to penetrate to thegun-position. Both my task and Doe's were dam-dangerous, said theColonel, but Doe's was the damnedest. On the effectiveness of myflanking support might depend his life and the success of the raid.Did I see?

"Yes, sir."

The hour of the attack was not known, he explained. Since the wholeHelles line was moving, the final order must come from G.H.Q. Buteverybody was to be armed and ready in the trenches by dawn.... And... well, good evening, Ray.

It was about dusk. I returned to the dug-out, and by candle-lightwrote out my company orders. Then Doe and I decided that we ought toput together a few letters. And Doe tossed his pencil gaily into theair and caught it. The action was to cover with a veneer ofmerriness a question which it embarrassed him to ask.

"Oughtn't we to make a jolly old will?"

"Sure thing," agreed I, in imitation of him. "It'll be rather fun."

§4

Soon after Battalion Orders were out, Monty came and sat down in ourdug-out. We had known he would come, and our reception of him wasplanned. Doe, whose affected gaiety had begun to give place to acertain wistfulness as the darkness fell, spoke first:

"D'you remember telling us one night on the Rangoon about somefellows who—who—gave you their wills the day before an attack?"

Monty turned his head, and started to frown through the dug-out doorat the still Ægean Sea.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, Rupert and I thought that we'd—that p'raps you'd look afterthese envelopes, in case—"

"Oh, damn!" said Monty. I had never heard him swear before, but Iknew that in the word his big heart spoke. Doe still held ourenvelopes towards his averted face, and at last he took themsilently.

"Thanks, awfully," said Doe.

"Thanks," said I.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, shut up!" Monty grumbled, and startedwhistling unconsciously. Immediately in my mind the words "Dismissme not thy service, Lord" framed themselves to the tune, andconjured up a vision of the smoking room of the Rangoon and itsdecks by starlight. Abruptly Monty broke off, and said, stillfrowning at the sea:

"Since those days you've been fairly loyal sons of the Church.Aren't you going to use her before to-morrow? To-night's a moreliteral Vigil than that voyage. Can't I—aren't you going to useme?"

It was the old Monty of the Rangoon speaking.

"We'd thought about it," answered Doe, reddening.

"I so want," murmured Monty, "to be of use to all the fellows whoare going over the top to-morrow. But they don't understand. Theydon't think of me as a priest with something to do for them thatnobody else can do. They think I've done my job when I've had ahymn-singing service, and preached to them.... And all the time Iwant to absolve them. I want to send them into the fight—white."

No word came from us to break a long pause. We had become againthose listening people of Rangoon nights.

"But you understand," he recommenced. "And, if you'll come to yourConfession, I'll at least have done something for somebody beforethis scrap. Rupert, you can thank Heaven you don't feel as Ido—that you've nothing positive to do to-morrow—that you're notpulling your weight. I shall just skulk about, like a dog worryingthe heels of an attack."

"Rot!" said Doe. "You've done wonders for the men."

"No, I haven't, except for those who come to their Mass andConfession. I've held no services a layman couldn't hold, and donenothing for the sick a hospital orderly couldn't do. And I want tobe their priest."

"Well, we'll both come to-night."

Monty ceased frowning at the sea, and smilingly turned towards us.

"You may think," he said, "that I've been of some help to you; butyou can never know of what help you two have been to me."

"Oh, rot!" said Doe, tossing a pencil into the air.

§5

It was about ten o'clock when I came away from Monty's home in theEski Line, where I had made my Confession. I retain an impression ofmyself, as I walked homeward through the darkness, moving along thesummits above Y Ravine. I was listening to the nervous night-firingof the Turk, who was apprehensive of something in the morning, andhearing in my mind Monty's last words: "Forget those things whichare behind, and press towards the mark of your high calling."

Walking along the Peninsula at night being always a gloomy matter, Iwas glad to arrive at the dug-out, where Doe was already under hisblankets. I lay down and spent a long time battling with my mind toprevent it keeping me awake by too active thinking. For, if only Icould drop off into unconsciousness, I had the chance of sleepingtill an hour before the dawn.

§6

There is something depressing in being called while it is stilldark, and being obliged to dress by artificial light. As I laced myboots by the flame of the candle in the dusk before the dawn, I felta sensation I used to experience at school, when they lit theclass-room gas in the early twilight of a winter afternoon—asensation of the sadness and futility of all things.

I awoke Doe, and could tell, as he sat up, rubbing his eyes andyawning, that returning memory was filling his mind with speculationas to what unthinkable things the morning might hold in its womb.With the feigned gaiety of the day before he flung off his blankets,and said:

"Well, Roop, it's 'over the top and the best of luck' for us thismorning."

"Strange how quiet everything is," I replied. "The bombardment oughtto have started before this."

"Yes, it's a still and top-hole morning." Saying this, Doe went tothe dug-out window to look at the dawn. The moment that his faceframed itself in the square of the window, dawn, coming in like anÆgean sunset with a violet light, lit up his half-profile, throwinginto clear relief the familiar features, and dropping a brilliantspark into each of his wide, contemplative eyes. The effect was athing of the stage: it lent him an added wistfulness, and I felt apang of pity for him, and a throb of something not lower than love.He walked back to his bed, whistling, while I completed mypreparations by fixing my revolver to my belt.

"Well, I'm ready," I said. "I must go and look at my braves."

"Don't s'pose I shall see you again, then, before the show," saidDoe, pulling on his boots nonchalantly.

"No. We'll compare notes in the captured trenches this evening."

"Right you are. Cheerioh!"

"Chin-chin."

I went out, reviewing painful possibilities. In the trenches Ifound my company "standing-to," armed and ready. Knowing that idlewaiting would mean suspense and agitation, I went about overhaulingammunition, and instructing my men on the exact objectives and thework of consolidation. My restlessness brought back vividly that daywhen I had suffered from nerves before the Bramhall-Erasmus swimmingrace. The same interior hollowness made me chafe at delay and longto be started—to be busied in the excitement of action—to belooking back on it all as a thing of the past.

The morning wore on. There was bustling in the communicationtrenches, pack-mules bringing up ammunition, and men shoulderingcases of bombs. At ten o'clock the C.O. came round the line. Nowthat the imminence of the attack had made unpleasantly real his dutyof sending us over the top, he had grown quite fatherly. "Don't getkilled," he said. "I can't spare any of you—battalion dam-depletedalready.... Is there anything you wish to ask, my boy?"

"Yes, sir. I want to know what time it begins, and what exactly it'sall about."

"At two o'clock," he replied. "The mine goes up then. But what it'sall about I know no more than you do. Personally, I think it is tocover some operations at Suvla. The Staff is obviously sodam-anxious to let the Turk know we're going to attack, that I'msure this is a diversion intended to keep the Turk's Helles armyoccupied, and prevent it reinforcing Suvla. Go and have a look fromthe Bluff out to sea, and observe how well the show is beingadvertised. There may be reason for this ostentation, but it'sdam-awkward for my lads, who'll have to run up against awell-prepared enemy."

"But s'posing it means they're going to evacuate Suvla, and leave usto our fate, what'll be our position on Helles then, sir?"

"Well, we shall be like the rearguard that covered the retreat atMons—heroes, but mostly dead ones."

"Good Lord!" thought I, as the C.O. turned away. "We shall be lonelyon Helles to-night if we hear that the Suvla Army has left forEngland."

I went, as he suggested, to glance at the preparations on the sea. Isaw a string of devilish monitors, solemnly taking up theirposition between Imbros and our eastern coast. Destroyers lay roundthe Peninsula like a chain of black rulers. A great airship wassailing towards us. From Imbros and Tenedos aeroplanes were risinghigh in the sky.

The Turk, wide awake to these preliminaries, was firing shrapnel atthe aircraft overhead, and hurling towards the destroyers hishigh-explosive shells, which tossed up water-spouts in the sea. Thewhizz-bang gun spat continuously.

"You won't spit after to-night," I mused, "if Doe reaches you."

And, from all I knew of Doe and his passion for the heroic, I feltassured that he would never stay in the crater like a diffidentbatsman in his block. He would reach the opposite crease, or be runout.

"He'll get there. He'll get there," I told myself persistently.

§7

The attack having been postponed till two o'clock, Monty held anopen-air Communion Service in Trolley Ravine. The C.O., myself, anda few others stole half an hour to attend it. This day was the lastSunday in Advent, and a morning peace, such as reminded us ofEnglish Sundays, brooded over Gallipoli. Save for the distant andintermittent firing of the Turk, everything was very still, andMonty had no need to raise his voice. The Collect was probably beingread thus softly at a number of tiny services dotted about the hillsof Helles and Suvla. Never shall I hear it again without thinking ofthe last pages of the Gallipoli story, and of that Advent Sunday ofbig decisions. "O Lord, raise up thy power, and come among us ...that, whereas we are sore let and hindered in running the race thatis set before us, Thy bountiful mercy may speedily help and deliverus." Like an answer to prayer came the words of the Epistle:"Rejoice.... The Lord is at hand. Be anxious for nothing. And thepeace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep your heartsand minds." Read at Monty's service in Trolley Ravine, it soundedlike a Special Order of the Day. I remembered what the Colonel hadhinted about Suvla, and wondered whether at similar services thereit was being listened to like a last message to the Suvla Army.

Not long had I returned to my fire trenches before our bombardmentopened. The shells streamed over, seeming about to burst in our owntrenches, but exploding instead the other side of No Man's Land.Distant booms told us that the Navy had joined in the quarrel. Theawful noise of the bombardment, lying so low on our heads, and thedeafening detonations of the shells disarrayed all my thoughts. Mytemples throbbed, my ears sang and whistled, and something began tobeat and ache at the back of my head. My brain, crowded with thebombardment, had room for only two clear thoughts—the one, that Iwas standing with a foot on the firing-step, my revolver co*cked inmy hand; the other, that, when the mine gave the grand signal, Ishould clamber mechanically over the parapet and rush into turmoil.Hurry up with that mine—oh, hurry up! My limbs at least wereshivering with impatience to be over and away.

A great report set the air vibrating; the voice of my sergeant-majorshouted: "It's gone up, sir!" a burst of rapid rifle and machine-gunfire, spreading all along the line, showed that the bombers hadleapt out of the protection of the trenches and gone over theparapet—and, almost before I had apprehended all these things, Ihad scrambled over the sand-bags, and was in the open beneath ashower of earth that, blown by the mine into the air, was droppingin clods and particles. Confound the smoke and the dust! I couldscarcely see where I was running. The man on my right dropped with agroan. Elsewhere a voice was crying with a blasphemy, "I'm hit!"Bullets seemed to breathe in my face as they rushed past. I stumbledinto a hole. I picked myself up, for I saw before me a line ofbayonets, glistening where the light caught them. It was my company;and I must be in front of them—not behind. Revolver gripped, I ranthrough and beyond them, only to fall heavily in a deep depression,which was the Turkish trench. An enemy bayonet was coming like aspear at my breast just as I fired. The shadowy foe fell across mylegs. From under him I fired into the breast of another who loomedup to kill me. Then I rose, as a third, with a downward blow fromthe barrel of his rifle, knocked my revolver spinning from my hand.With an agony in my wrist, I snatched at his rifle, and, wrenchingthe bayonet free, stabbed him savagely with his own weapon, tearingit away as he dropped. Heavens! would my company never come? I hadonly been four yards in front of them. Was all this taking place inseconds? One moment of clear reasoning had just told me that thiscold dampness, moving along my knee, was the soaking blood of one ofmy victims, when a Turkish officer ran into the trench-bay, firingbackwards and blindly at my sergeant-major. Seeing me, he whippedround his revolver to shoot me. My fist shot out towards his chin inan automatic action of self-defence, and the bayonet, which it held,passed like a pin right through the man's throat. His blood spurtedover my hand and ran up my arm, as he dropped forward, bearing medown under him.

"Hurt, sir?" asked the sergeant-major, kindly. "We've got thetrench."

"Man the trench," said I, an English voice bringing my wits back,"and keep up a covering fire for the bombers."

At the mention of the bombers I thought of Doe. Getting quickly up,I stood on the piled bodies of my victims to see over the top. As Ilooked through the rolling smoke for the position of the bombers, Iheard my sergeant-major saying to a man in the next bay:

"Our babe's done orl right. He's killed four, and is now standin' on'em."

Without doubting that he was speaking of me, I yet felt no glow atthis rough tribute, for I was worried at what I saw in the open. Inthe fog of smoke I descried a figure that must be Doe's. He wasstill out on the top, his party straggling and bewildered. Itperplexed me. Why was he not under cover in the crater of the mine?Had all my blood-letting work only occupied the time it took him torun from his trench to the lips of the crater?

Seeing his danger, I rushed along my company, shouting: "Curse you!Double the rapidity of that fire. Do you want all the bomberskilled?" till I reached our extreme left, where we had been in touchwith Doe. Jumping up again, I watched his movements. I saw himrunning well in front of his bombers, who were now going forward, asif to a definite object. "Good—good—good! He'll get there." Thewords were mine, but they sounded like someone else's. Then, almostbefore the event which provoked it, I heard my own low groan.

Doe stopped, and staggered slightly backwards. His cap fell off, andthe wind blew his hair about, as it used to do on the cricket-fieldat school. He recovered an upright position; he smiled veryclearly—then folded up, and collapsed.

I saw his party retire rapidly, but in orderly fashion, under thecommand of their sergeant. Beyond them B Company, whose right flankhad been left hanging in the air by the withdrawal of the bombers,began to execute a similar movement.

"Tain't the bombers' fault, sir," exclaimed my sergeant-major. "Themine failed to produce a crater. They'd nowt to occupy."

Sick with misery and indecision, I was realising that I must retiremy company, its left flank being exposed—I was taking a last lookat the huddled form that had been my friend, when I saw him rise andrush forward. Excitedly I cried: "Fire! Fire! Keep up that coveringfire! Be ready to advance at any moment." Ha, there were no tacticsabout the position in front of Fusilier Bluff that minute. Doe wastumbling forward alone. A company, firing furiously to keep down theheads of the Turks, was "in the air"—and ready to advance.

"Message to retire at once, sir," reported my sergeant-major.

Look! Doe had something in his hand. He hurled it. A distant thudand a small report merged at once into a great explosion, whichreverberated about the Bluff. Doe laughed shrilly. He fell. But itcould only have been the shock which knocked him over, for he was onhis feet again, and staggering home.

"Gawd!" screamed the sergeant-major. "He's bombed the gun andexploded the shell-dump. Finish whizz-bang!" And he bellowed withtriumphant laughter.

"I knew he would," cried I. "I knew he would. This way, Doe!"

He was going blindly to his right.

"Message from C.O. to retire at once, sir."

"This way, Doe!" I roared at him, laughing, for I thought he waswell and unhurt.

But no. He pitched, rolled over, and lay still.

I gasped. What was I to do? Ordered to retire, I wanted to jump outand fetch him in. In those few seconds of indecision, I saw a figurecrash forward, pick up Doe's body, and run back.

"The padre! The padre!" exclaimed the sergeant-major.

"No? Was it?"

"Gawd, yes! The gor-blimey parson!"

"Pass the word to retire," I commanded. "Hang it! We seem to havedone the job we set out to do."

§8

Covered with blood and dust, my jacket torn, I came half an hourlater upon Monty, where he was sitting wearily upon a mound. I hadbut one question to ask him.

"Is he dead?"

"No. Hit in the shoulder the first time. Then, after he got up andbombed the gun, hit four times in the waist."

"Will he die?"

"Of course."

I walked away, as a man does from one who has cruelly hurt him.

"O Christ!" I said, just blasphemously, for in that moment oftearless agony all my moral values collapsed. "O Christ! Damnbeauty! Damn everything!" Then there came a disorder of the mind, inwhich I could only repeat to myself: "The Germans are coming, ohdear, oh dear. The Germans are coming, oh dear, oh dear. TheGermans—Oh, drop it, for God's sake, drop it!"

A night and a morning passed: and the next afternoon I was sittingon the Bluff, glumly watching a destroyer flash and smoke, as shehurled shells over my head to Achi Baba. An officer came up, andwith grim meaning handed me the typed copy of an official telegram.

"Here's the key to yesterday's riddle," he explained.

I took it and read: "Suvla and Anzac successfully evacuated. Nocasualties."

The officer waited till I had finished, and then said:

"Well, what's our position on Helles now? A bit dickey, eh?"

Scarcely interested, I looked along the coast of the Peninsula andsaw two great conflagrations, the smoke ascending in pillars to thesky, at Suvla and Anzac, where the retiring army had fired theremaining stores.

CHAPTER XV

TRANSIT

§1

Then Monty approached me, as I tossed stones down the slope on tothe beach.

"I've seen him," he said. "He's in No. 17 Stationary Hospital, the'White City.' Are you coming?"

"Of course," replied I uncivilly. Did he think he would visit Doeand I wouldn't—I who had known him ten years? The man waspresuming on his six-months' acquaintance with my friend.

"Well, come down to the dump, and we'll find you a horse."

"How is he?" asked I, not choosing to be told what to do.

"Bad. Come along. There's no time to lose."

"All right—I'm coming, aren't I? I don't need to be ordered to go."

In silence we went down Gurkha Mule Trench into Gully Ravine, wherethe horse lines were.

"Saddle up Charlie," said Monty to his groom, "and get the Major'schestnut for Captain Ray."

The groom brought the horses, and, as he tightened up the girth onMonty's dark bay Arab, asked me:

"Are you going to see Mr. Doe, sir?"

I turned away without answering. I hadn't spoken to him, and therewas no occasion for him to speak to me.

"Yes, we are," said Monty promptly.

"Sad about such a nice young gentleman. He's packing up, they say."

"The damned alarmist!" thought I. "He relishes the grim news."

But I knew in my heart that I was only grudging him his right to besorry for Doe. Who was he to grieve? Three months before he hadnot heard of us. On all the Peninsula there was only one just claimto the right of grieving: and that was mine.

Monty mounted. Seizing the reins carelessly, I put my foot in thechestnut's stirrup. As I rose, the bit pulled on the mare's mouthand she wheeled and reared, shaking me awkwardly to the ground.

"Damn the bloody horse," I said aloud.

Monty stroked his bay's silk neck, as though he had heard nothing.

"You've got his rein too tight, sir," the groom told me.

"All right! I know how to mount a horse."

I swung into the saddle, and, ignoring Monty, set the mare, whichwas very fresh, at a canter towards Artillery Road. Artillery Roadwas a winding gun-track that climbed out of Gully Ravine up to thetableland beneath Achi Baba. Much too fast I ran the chestnut up thesteep incline, and emerged from the ravine on to the high levelground. Straightway I looked across two miles of scrub to theseaward point of the plateau, where stood a large camp of squaretents. It was No. 17 Stationary Hospital, the "White City." ... Iwondered which of those tents he was in.

The chestnut, anxious for a gallop through the scrub, and excited bythe noise of Monty cantering behind, pulled hard. My heart was insympathy with her, and I let her open into a stretch-gallop. For Iwas absurdly thinking that, if once I allowed Monty to draw abreastof me, I should yield to him a share of my position as chiefmourner. I wanted to be lonely in my grief.

At a point in front of me on the beaten road shells were droppingwith regularity. Savagely grieving, I let the mare race the shellsto the danger zone. What cared I if shell and mare and riderconverged together upon their destruction?

I rode through a rush of confused impressions. At one moment I waspassing Pink Farm Cemetery, which had two of its crosses nearlybroken by a shell-splinter. I was wondering if they would bury himthere, alongside of White, under the solitary tree. At another, Iwas galloping through the lines of the Lowland Division, where aband of pipers was playing "Annie Laurie," and an officer cried outto me: "Stop that galloping, you young fool." In answer I put heelsto the mare's flanks and urged her on. And all the while the "WhiteCity" was growing nearer and larger, and my heart beginning to beatwith anticipation and fear. I shouldn't know what to do or to say.Never shy of Doe living, I was shy of Doe dying.

Having pulled the excited mare into control and dismounted, I lookedround, sneakily sideways, for Monty. I wanted his company now, for Ifeared what was coming. Too proud to appear to wait for him, Ishammed difficulty with the animal's head-rope, and delayed longover the task of tethering her securely. And the time, during whichMonty arrived and dismounted, I killed by unloosening girth andsurcingle.

"Come along, Rupert, old chap."

Monty led the way to Doe's tent. And the chief mourner followedhumbly behind. As we dipped our heads to pass under the porch, wewent out of the glare of the open air into the subdued and gentlelight of the tent. At once a coolness like that of evening displacedthe warmth of the afternoon. And a strange quiet fell about ourears. It seemed to me that the eight cots were empty.

The orderly on duty greeted Monty with a soft whisper: "He's quiteconscious, sir, but won't last long."

Following the glance of the orderly, I saw Doe's wide eyes fixedupon me.

"Hallo, Rupert."

I hurried to his bedside, feeling, even in that moment, a triumphantjoy that his affectionate welcome had been for me and not for Monty.

"Hallo, Doe."

He looked very beautiful, lying there. His complexion, always asflawless as a little child's, had assumed a new waxen loveliness,no touch of colour varying its pale and delicate brown. And his eyeswere brilliant.

"Well—we did in the old gun, Rupert, that killed—Jimmy Doon—andMajor Hardy.... The Rangoon proved too strong for it, after all!"

How characteristic of our dear, dramatic Doe his words were!

"Yes," I said, and could think of nothing more to say.

He moved his body slightly, and I, cudgelling my mind for someremark, asked:

"Were you hurt much?"

"I was wounded—in the shoulder—and then hit four times, afterI—the doctor seems to think it's pretty bad—but oh, it's nothing."

As he spoke I could see that he was rather pleased with thepicturesqueness of being "Dangerously Wounded," and that, while hewished to inform us how interesting he had become, he wished also toappear to be stoically making light of his pain. And I loved him forbeing the same self-conscious heroic character up to the last.

The brilliant eyes sought out Monty, who was standing just behindme. Doe gazed at him, and, after a thoughtful pause, laughednervously.

"I wonder if I shall be—here—to-morrow, when you come. I dare sayI shan't."

Again I saw the thought behind his words. Probably my love for himwas blazing up, in these farewell moments, brighter than it had everbeen, and illuminating all things. I saw that he wanted to live, butfeared he was going to die. I saw that he had gambled everythingupon his last remark, and was waiting to see if he would draw lifeor death.

Had he said it to me I should have answered hurriedly: "Of courseyou will," but Monty was cast in more courageous metal. Boldly heseized this moment to convey the truth. He offered no denial toDoe's daring suggestion that the end was near: instead, he laid hishand very gently on the boy's wrist, as if to tell him that hewished to help him through with a difficult thought.

Throughout my life, till someone shall tell me that my time hascome, I shall remember Doe's look when he saw that Monty was notgoing to dispute his statement. His wide eyes stared inquiringly.Then they filmed over with a slight moisture, for they belonged to aboy who was not yet twenty. He dropped his eyelids to conceal thewelling moisture, but raised them a few seconds later, revealingthat the tears had gathered still more abundantly, and his lasheswere wet with them. Nevertheless he smiled, and said:

"Well, it can't be helped. If I'd known when I started that itwould end like this—I'd have gone through with it just the same. Ihaven't got cold feet."

§2

"It's an end to all the ambitions and poems," said Doe later, whenthe windowless tent seemed to be getting dark, though the afternoonwas yet early. "P'raps you'll be left to fulfil yours, Rupert. Doyou remember you said in Radley's room—all those hundreds of yearsago—that you wanted to be a country squire?"

"Yes," answered I, with a quivering lip.

"And Penny wanted—to be a Tory.... And I wanted to lead the people.Oh, well. I'd like just to have known—whether we won the war in theend. P'raps you'll know—"

"We're winning," said I feebly.

"O Lord, yes," agreed Doe, dreamily echoing an old memory.

It grew darker, though not yet three o'clock; and my brain seemed tobe receding from me with the light. I felt tired and frightened.There was a long pause, till at last I said:

"Well, I s'pose I must be going now."

God! The futility of the words! And they were the last I could utterto Doe!... I grasped his wrist. If I couldn't speak, I could passall my abounding love and misery through the pressure of my hand.

"Good-bye," he said. "Thanks for coming to see me."

The boyish words broke me up. My brows contracted in pain. My eyesburned, and misery filled my throat. I even felt a smile at thetragedy of it all pass over my face. Then with an audible moan Irushed away.

I went out to my horse without waiting for Monty. I could havewaited for nobody. I wanted motion, action, something to occupy myhands and feet and mind. As I mounted the mare she began to walkaway. But walking was not action enough. Impatiently I urged her toa canter and a gallop. And, while she galloped, increasing herdistance from the "White City," I asked myself if I realised that Iwas riding away from Doe for ever.

The spirited mare, knowing that she was going home to her lines,opened out like a winner racing up the straight. The extravagance ofher speed exactly fitted my extravagant mood. I promised myselfthat, just as I was letting my animal have its head, so I wouldslacken all moral reins, and let my life run uncontrolled. There wasnot more beauty in things than ugliness, nor more happiness inlife than pain. Have done with this straining after ideals!... Thehorse gathered pace.

Then, as I rode savagely and thought savagely, a strange thinghappened. I was gripping the mare with my knees, and, now that shewas attaining her highest speed, I leaned forward like a jockey,throwing my weight on her withers. The wind rushed past me; theexhilaration of speed filled me; that invigorating sensation ofstrong life pulling upon my reins and springing between the grip ofmy knees ran through my veins; my lungs tightened; a pleasingweariness set in below the heart; and for a moment I almost felt theunconquerable joy of youth in life!

Instantly I pulled the wild animal in, and dropped into a melancholywalk. I felt as if I had been trapped. Not yet would I be disloyalto Doe by admitting beauty in creation or joy in living. I walkedthe lathering mare to the lines, like a tired jockey who has run hisrace. Then I wandered home to Fusilier Bluff—home to a dug-out fortwo! I couldn't enter the dug-out yet. I lay down on the Bluff,watching the late sun nearing the hills of Imbros.

The misery possessing me was of that passionate kind which embracesself-torture. I wilfully excavated the ten past years for memoriesof Doe, though, in so doing, I was pressing upon my wound to make ithurt. I watched him as a boy, getting into the next bed in theBramhall dormitory, or rowing in the evening light up the river atFalmouth. I saw two young khaki figures, his and mine, setting outat midnight to sin and sully ourselves together. I heard him quotingon the hilltops of Mudros his haunting couplet:

The memories made my breath come fast and jerkily. With madlyexalted words I addressed that slight fair-haired figure, whichmust now for ever be only a memory. "My friend," I said to it;"mine, mine!" In the freshness of my loss, I thought no lover hadever loved as I did. "I loved you—I loved you—I loved you," Irepeated. And I even worked myself up into a weary longing to die.Pennybet had led the way, and Doe now was following him. And whyshould not I complete the story? Why not? Why not?

My brain was pulsing thus tempestuously when Monty drew near me. Iaffected not to notice his coming, but when he sat down beside me Idecided to speak first. I felt it would be a supreme relief to hurthim with the news that I had abandoned his ideal, and let myspiritual life collapse. So, without looking at him, I said angrily:

"There's no beauty in it."

"Rupert, you're wrong," he answered, "and you'll see it when you areless unhappy." He paused. "Doe—Edgar used to worry himself becausehe thought that any really good thing that he did was spoiled by adesire for glory. He often said that he wanted to do a reallyperfect thing. And, Rupert, this afternoon he told me that, when hewent forward to put out that gun, he felt quite alone. He seemedsurrounded with smoke and flying dust. And he thought he would doone big deed unseen.... He did his perfect thing at the last."

"There's no beauty," I repeated dully.

"Rupert, Edgar is dead.... And there's only one unbeautiful thingabout his death, and that is the way his friend is taking it."

Monty stopped, and both of us watched the sun go down behind Imbros.It was throwing out golden rays like the spokes of a wheel. Theserays caught the flaky clouds above Samothrace, and just pencilledtheir outline with a tiny rim of gold and fire. And the hills ofImbros, as always in the Ægean Sea, turned purple.

"There's no beauty in death and burial and corruption," I said.

"Yes, there is, even in them. There's beauty in thinking that thesame material which goes to make these earthly hills and that stillwater should have been shaped into a graceful body, and lit with thedivine spark which was Edgar Doe. There's beauty in thinking that,when the unconquerable spark has escaped away, the material isreturned to the earth, where it urges its life, also anunconquerable thing, into grass and flowers. It's harmonious—it'sbeautiful."

This time I forbore to repeat my obstinate denial.

"And your friendship is a more beautiful whole, as things are. Hadthere been no war, you'd have left school and gone your differentroads, till each lost trace of the other. It's always the same. But,as it is, the war has held you in a deepening intimacy till—tillthe end. It's—it's perfect."

"It'll be more perfect," I answered, in a low, hollow voice, "if thewar ends us both. Perhaps it will. There is time yet."

At so bitter a sentence Monty gave me a look, and broke through allbarriers with a single generous remark.

"Rupert, old chap, the loss of Edgar leaves me numb with pain, butI know I'm not suffering like you."

A dry sob tore up my frame.

"Oh, I don't know what I feel," I gulped, "or what I've said. Ithink I've been a self-centred cad. I'm—I'm sorry."

Monty muttered something gentle, and left me reclining on the Bluffand looking out to sea. I didn't turn my head to watch him go. But Iwas thinking now less stormily.

Yes, I had been behaving like a fool: but I had been mad, as thougheverything had snapped. To-morrow I would recover my mental balanceand resume moral effort. My last loyalty to Doe should be this: thatI would not let his death destroy his friend's ideals. That, asMonty said, would spoil the beauty of it all. And I, least of any,should spoil it! But to-night—just for to-night—my fretful,contrary mood must play itself out. To-morrow I would begin again.

So I lay watching the changing lights. Darkness came close behindthe sunset, and there, yonder, Orion hung low in the sky. I tossed afew stones down the Bluff, but soon it was too dark to see themafter they had travelled a little distance. Overhead the skydeepened to the last blue of night, but along the western horizon itremained a luminous sea-green. Against this bright afterglow thehills of Imbros stood almost black. I stared at them. Then theluminous green turned to the blue of the zenith, and the hills werelost. And the cold of the Gallipoli night chilled me, as I laythere, too indolent and despairing to seek warmth.

CHAPTER XVI

THE HOURS BEFORE THE END

§1

On the following day we buried Doe at sundown. In a grave on HunterWeston Hill, which slopes down to W Beach, he lies with his feettoward the sea.

The same evening the medical orderly abused my confidence andinformed the doctor that I was running a high temperature; and thedoctor told me to pack up, as he was sending me to hospital. Irefused.

I pointed out to him that if I, as a Company Commander, were to gosick at this juncture of the Gallipoli campaign, I could never againlook the men of my company in the face. I tried to be funny aboutit. I asked him if he knew that Suvla had been evacuated; and thatthe Turks had therefore their whole Suvla army released to attack uson Helles—to say nothing of unlimited reinforcements pouringthrough Servia from Germany. I offered him an even bet that a fewdays hence we should either be lying dead in the scrub at Helles, ormarching wearily to our prison at Constantinople. How, then, could Idesert my men at this perilous moment? "The Germans are coming, ohdear, oh dear," I summed up; and then shivered, as I rememberedwhose merry voice had first chanted those words.

All this I explained to the doctor, but I did not tell him that,when I discovered my abnormal temperature, I had felt a quick springof joy bubbling up, for here was an excuse for getting out of thisGallipoli, of which I was so sick and tired; and then I hadremembered how, in loyalty to Doe, I had replaced my old ideals, andby their light I must stay. I must only leave the Peninsula when Icould leave it with honour of holding Helles for the Empire.

In the end the doctor and I compromised. He said he would not sendme to hospital, but that I must go down to the dump, and take thingseasy for a few days. From there I could be summoned, since I tookmyself so devilish seriously, to die with my men when the massacrebegan. I told him that the dump was too far back, but that, if heliked, I would go and live with Padre Monty in the Eski Line.

So a few days before Christmas I arrived with my batman and my kitat Monty's tiny sand-bag dug-out. He gave me a joyous welcome,stating that he would order the maids to light the fire in the bestbedroom and air the sheets. Meanwhile, would I step into his study?

§2

"I'm glad," said I to Monty at breakfast the next morning, "that Ishall spend Christmas alone with you here. I couldn't have stoodjust now a riotous celebration with the regiment."

"Of course not," he agreed, and we both kept a silence in honour ofthe dead.

"Though I doubt if it'll be a riotous Christmas for anyone," Iresumed. "Probably the last most of us will ever know."

"Stuff!" murmured Monty.

"'Tisn't stuff. Have you seen the Special Order of the Day that hasbeen printed and stuck up everywhere, congratulating us on ourattack of December 19, which, it says, 'contributed largely to thesuccessful evacuation of Suvla,' and telling us that to our ArmyCorps 'has been entrusted the honour of holding Helles for theEmpire'?"

"Heavens!" he muttered. "We can't do it."

"Of course we can't; and we can't quit."

"Not without being wiped out," he agreed.

"Exactly. I wonder what it'll feel like, having a Turco bayonet inone's stomach."

"Rupert," said Monty suddenly, "we've had a bad jar, and we'regetting morbid. Cheer up. Muddly old Britain will get us out of thismess. And now we're jolly well going to make all we can out of thisChristmas. It'll certainly be the most piquant of our lives.Adams!"

"Sir?" Monty's batman appeared at the dug-out door in answer to thecall.

"Get your entrenching tool. We're going to dig up a little fir for aChristmas tree."

So we spent the next days making our Christmas preparations,determined to keep the feast. We decorated the sand-bag cabin—oh,yes! Over the pictures of our people, pinned to the sand-bag walls,we placed sprigs of a small-leaf holly that grew on the Peninsula.We planted the little fir in a disused petrol-tin, and, after avisit to the canteen, decorated it with boxes of Turkish delight,sticks of chocolate, packets of chewing-gum, oranges, lemons, soap,and bits of Government candles. It was a Christmas tree of somedistinction. And mistletoe? No, we couldn't find any mistletoe, butthen, as Monty said, it would have no point on Gallipoli, therebeing no—just so; when we should be home again for Christmas ofnext year, we would claim an extra kiss for 1915.

"Pest! Rupert," exclaimed Monty, "we've forgotten to send anyChristmas cards. To work at once!"

We sat down at the tiny table and cut notepaper into elegant shapes,sticking on it little bits of Turkish heather, and printing beneath:"A Slice of Turkey" (which we thought a very happy jest); "Heatherfrom Invaded Enemy Territory. Are we downhearted? NO! Are we goingto win? YES!"

And by luck there arrived a parcel from Mother with a cake. Of plumpudding we despaired, till one fine morning there came a present(half a pound per man) of that excellent comestible from the DailyNews (whom the gods preserve and prosper).

"All is now ready," proclaimed Monty.

Christmas Day dawned beautiful in sky and atmosphere. It would havebeen as mild and gracious as a windless June day had not the Turk,nervous lest these dogs of Christians should celebrate theirfestival with any untoward activity, opened at daylight aprophylactic bombardment.

We stood in the dug-out door and watched the shells dropping.

"Does it strike you, Rupert," asked Monty, making a grimace, "thatOld-Man-Turk has more guns firing than ever before?"

"Yes," I answered. "The guns from Suvla have come."

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a shell shrieking intoour own cookhouse, drove us like rabbits into the dug-out.

"Does it strike you, Rupert," said Monty, "that Turk Pasha has somepals with him who are firing heavier shells than ever before?"

"Yes," said I. "The Germans have come."

§3

The afternoon we devoted to preparations for the feast of theevening. We laid the table. There was a water-proof ground-sheet forthe cloth. There were little holly branches stuck in tobacco tins.And there were candles in plenty (for they were a Government issue,and we could be free with them). At Monty's suggestion, whomaintained that the family must be gathered at the Christmas board,we placed photographs of our people on the table. There was apicture of Monty's sister and (for shame, Monty! fie upon you forkeeping it dark so long) the picture of somebody else's sister.There was the portrait of my mother, and oh! in a silent moment, Ihad nearly placed on the table the dear face of Edgar Doe, but,instead, I put it back in my pocket, saying nothing to Monty, andfeeling guilty of a lapse.

We were glad when the darkness came, for we wanted to try the effectof the candles, both those on the table and those on the Christmastree. And truly the darkness, the candles, the flying sparks fromour Yule log, and the smell of burning wood made Christmaseverywhere.

Then we sat down to the meal. The menu said: "Consommé Gallipoli,Stew Dardanelles, Plum Pudding, Dessert, Lemonade à la Tour Eiffel."The soup was very good, even if it was only the gravy from the nextcourse. And the stew in its plate looked almost too fine to disturb;the very largest onion was stuck in the middle—was it not ChristmasDay? The pudding we set on fire with the Army rum issue. And thedish of dessert was a fine pile of lemons and oranges—the lemonsnot being there to be eaten, of course, but to make the show morebrave.

Then the batmen were fetched in and given the presents from theChristmas Tree. And we drank healths in lemonade à la Tour Eiffel.We toasted the King, the Allies, "Johnny Turk beyond the Parapet,"and, above all, "Our People at home, God bless 'em!" We sang "Forthey are jolly good fellows," and it was wonderful what a fine thingtwo officers and their soldier-servants made of it. Somebody, warmedup by this lively chorus, raised his glass and suggested "To Hellwith the Kaiser!" But this toast we disallowed, on the ground thatit would spoil our kindly feeling, and besides, as Monty observedcompensatingly, he would be toasted enough when he got there.

And, when it was all over, I went out into the darkness to walkalone for a little, and to get the chill night air blowing upon myforehead. It was as clear and fine a night as it had been aday—cloudless, still, and starlit. And—forgive me—but I couldonly think of him whom we had left on Hunter Weston Hill, with hisfeet toward the sea, lying out there in the cold and the quiet. OGod, when should I get used to it?

CHAPTER XVII

THE END OF GALLIPOLI

§1

Wandering down the Gully Ravine one morning, I encountered a longline of men marching up it in single file. I passed as close to themas possible, so that, by a glance at their shoulder-straps, I mightascertain their regiment. No sooner had I learned who they were thanI turned about and hurried back to Monty's dug-out. This life holdsfew pleasures so agreeable as that of conveying startling news.

"Who do you think's marching up the Gully?" I demanded.

"I don't know. Who?" asked Monty.

"The Munster Fusiliers!"

"What? The immortal 29th Division? From Suvla. The dickens! Whatdoes it mean?"

Before we could decide what it meant my batman came back from avisit to the French canteen at Seddel Bahr.

"They're landing hundreds of troops at V Beach, sir," said he. "TheWorcesters are here, and the Warwicks."

"The 13th Division," exclaimed Monty. "Also from Suvla."

"They're reinforcements," said I. "It's all in accordance with theSpecial Order of the Day that we are to 'hold Helles for theEmpire.'"

Monty was just about to pulverise me with a particularly ruderejoinder, when a voice outside called "Hostile aircraft overhead,"and we were drawn at a run to the door by the unmistakable sound ofanti-aircraft guns, followed by the bursting out of rifle andmachine-gun fire, which grew and grew till it sounded like a mightyforest crackling and spluttering in flames. We glanced into the skyat the shrapnel puffs, and immediately discovered two enemyaeroplanes flying lower than they had ever done before. We couldalmost see the observers leaning over the fuselage to spy out if theBritish on Helles were up to the monkey tricks they had played atSuvla. So low were they that all men with rifles—the infantry intheir trenches, the A.S.C. drivers from their dumps, the transportmen from their horse-lines—were firing a rapid-fire at theaeroplanes and waiting to see them fall.

"Cheeky brutes!" I shouted, and, observing that our batmen werehastily loading their rifles, ran for my revolver, determined tofire something into the air.

"It's like us," growled Monty, "to land reinforcements under thevery eyes of the enemy aeroplanes—" He paused, as though a new ideahad struck him. "Rupert, my boy, did you say that the Special Orderabout holding Helles was extensively published?"

"Yes, rather. Hung in the very traverses of the trenches."

"I thought so." He nodded with irritating mysteriousness. "Whatfools you and I are! Stop firing at those Taubes. Or fire wide ofthem—fire wide."

"Why?"

"Because our Staff will want them to get home and report all thatthey've seen. That's why."

Of a truth Monty was quite objectionable, if he was excited withsome secret discovery, and thought it amusing not to disclose it.And when, later that afternoon, a message came round saying thatirresponsible units were not to fire at hostile aircraft, owing tothe danger of spent bullets, he bragged like any perniciousschoolboy.

"I told you so. O Rupert, my silly little juggins, you're as denseas a vegetable marrow. I mean, you're a very low form of life."

§2

The weather broke. Two days of merciless rain turned the trenchesinto lanes of red clayey mud, and the floor of the Gully Ravine intoa canal of stagnant brown water. And one evening Monty returned fromhis visitations, limping badly. He had slipped heavily, as hepaddled through the ankle-deep mud, and had hurt his back. I senthim at once to bed, and on the following morning announced that Iwas going to no less terrifying a place than Brigade Headquartersto insist on his being given a pair of trench-waders. He enjoinedme not to be an ass, and I rebuked him severely for speaking to hisdoctor like that, and, going out of the dug-out, broke off allcommunication with one so rude.

Reaching Brigade Headquarters, which were on the slope across theGully, I asked the least alarming of the Staff Officers, the StaffCaptain, for a pair of trench-waders.

"Sorry," answered he, "we've had orders to return them all." Helooked most knowing, as he said it, and seemed to think it a remarkpregnant with excitement.

"Oh, I see," I replied, quite inadequately.

"Yes," he continued, staring whimsically at me, "we've been orderedto shift our quarters to-night."

"Good Lord!" I said, still confused.

"Yes, we leave—by ship—at midnight. It's the Evacuation. Theother two brigades of our Division have already gone, and we goto-night!"

"The devil!" exclaimed I. "Then I'll go and pack."

"Of course; and tell the padre to meet the battalion at W Beach atten o'clock."

Down the hillside I went, across the Gully, forging like asteam-pinnace through the water, and up the face of the oppositehill. Full of the glorious bursting weight of good news, I lookeddown upon our batmen at work in the cookhouse, and roared: "Pack thevalises. We're off to-night." I rushed into the dug-out. "Get up," Icommanded Monty; "we leave by ship at midnight."

Never did an invalid with a broken back leap so easily out of hisbed, as did Monty. He assured me, however, in an apologetic way,that he had been feeling much better even before he had the news.

"Now you know," said he, "what the Special Order about holdingHelles was for—to deceive old Tomfool Turk; and why those regimentsfrom Suvla were landed here—to appear to the Turk likereinforcements, but really to conduct the evacuation at Helles,having learnt the job at Suvla; and why we wanted the Turkishaeroplanes to get back with news of our landing of troops—but, mybonny lad, for every two hundred we land by day, we'll take off twothousand by night!"

After a morning of hurried packing we decorated the dug-out wallswith messages for Johnny Turk to find, when he should enter ourdeserted dwelling. "Sorry, Johnny, not at home"; "Au revoir, Abdul."

"Really," said Monty, "we possess a pretty wit." And, having placeda mug of whisky on the table with a bottle of water, so that Old ManTurk could pour it out to his liking, he wrote: "Have this one withme, John. You fought well."

"Get my kit down with yours," said I. "I'll meet you at W Beach atten pip-emma."

"Why?" he asked in surprise. "Aren't you coming with me?"

"No," I replied, playing scandalous football with the cookhouse;"I'm going to join my company and lead my braves to safety.Good-bye."

"For Heaven's sake, don't be rash," he called after me as I set off."There may be dangerous work."

"Meet you at W Beach at ten pip-emma," cried I, now some distanceaway.

"But you haven't the doctor's permission to return."

"Damn the doctor!" I yelled, and disappeared.

§3

It was quite dark in the fire-trenches by seven o'clock. My men,with every stitch of equipment on their backs, stood on thefiring-step and kept up a dilatory fire on the Turkish lines.

"Maintain an intermittent fire," I ordered, as I walked among them."Not too much of it, or the Turk will think we're nervy, and beginto suspect—not too little, or he'll wonder if we're moving."

In silence the relief of my company was effected. The men of the13th Division, who were taking over our line, replaced one afteranother my men on the firing-step, and kept the negligent fireunbroken. With a whisper I officially handed over my sector to theircompany commander.

"You'll follow us to-morrow, probably," I said, to comfort myselfrather than him. I didn't want the man who relieved me to be amongthe killed.

"What will happen, will happen," he murmured. "Good luck."

"We shan't be sure we're really going," I prattled on, lest silencebecame morbid. "I simply can't believe it. Either we shall bekilled, going from here to W Beach, or our orders will be cancelledat the last moment."

"Pass the word to Captain Ray," whispered a voice, "to march his menout."

"Word passed to you, sir, to march," said the sergeant-major.

"From whom?"

"Pass the word back—who from?"

"From Commanding Officer."

I walked to the head of my company. "File out in absolute silence,"said I, not remembering at the moment that this was the great orderof evacuation. I watched my company file past me—twenty-eight men.Then I followed, wishing it were lighter, for man never quiteoutgrows his dislike of utter darkness—and this was a nervousnight. We threaded guiltily through the old trench system, andemerged into the Gully Ravine, hardly realising that we had biddenthe old lines good-bye.

Since dusk the Turk, as apprehensive as ourselves, had been shellingthe Gully. And now, as we splashed and floundered along it, shellsscreamed towards our column, making each of us wonder dreamilywhether he would be left dead by the wayside. We reached ArtilleryRoad, and discerned the shadowy form of the remainder of thebattalion.

A figure appeared from somewhere, and I recognised the voice as theC.O.'s.

"I shall take the other companies by the road under the cliffs. Takeyour men over the tableland, and wait for me at W Beach. We shallget there more quickly and less noisily that way."

"Yes, sir," said I, saluting. But under my breath I swore. I had nodesire to take my men along the plateau, because, whereas the roadunder the cliffs was well sheltered, the tableland was exposed toall the guns on Achi Baba, every one of which—so jumpy was theTurk—seemed manned and firing. And I had set my heart on getting mycompany—all twenty-eight of them—off the Peninsula without theloss of a single man. The route, too, lay over Hunter Weston Hill,and I wanted to avoid seeing and thinking of Doe's grave to-night.

So, worrying anxiously, I gave the order "D Company—march!" and ledthe way up Artillery Road, while the men, observing that the othercompanies were proceeding in comparative safety along the Gully,began to sing quietly: "I'll take the high road, and you'll take thelow road ... and we shall never meet again," and to titter and tolaugh.

"Silence!" I commanded.

Hearing only the padding of our feet as they marched in step, andkeeping our eyes on the ground that we might not miss the beatentrack and wander into the heather, we tramped along the trail whichI had taken on my wild ride to Doe's bedside. We passed Pink FarmCemetery, barely distinguishing the outline of its solitary tree. Weleft the "White City" on our right. It was brilliantly lit, that theTurk might think everything was as usual on Helles. We reached thesummit of Hunter Weston Hill, and looked down upon a still greyplain, which was the sea.

On the slope of the hill, not fifty yards from where Doe was lying,I had halted my men and was making them sit down, when a voice outof the darkness asked:

"Who's that?"

My heart bounded with fright. A sense of the eerie was upon me, andfor a second I thought it was Doe's voice.

"D Company," I called hollowly, "10th East Cheshires."

"Ah, good!" repeated the voice, which was Monty's. And he steppedout of the night, giving me another nasty turn, for it was like someunexpected presence coming from the darkest corner of a room. He satdown beside me, and began to talk.

"The moon is due up about midnight. They want to get us off beforemoonrise, so that the Turk may not shell us by its light. Hisaviators are expected to try night-flying."

"Oh!" said I. I was thinking of other things.

"But they've been shelling us pretty effectively in the dark.Asiatic Annie is very busy troubling the beaches."

"Oh?" I said again.

And at that moment a flash illuminated the eastern sky likelightning.

"There you are," said Monty. "She's fired."

No sound of a gun firing or a shell rushing had accompanied theflash. Only alarm whistles began blowing from different points onthe hillside.

"They're blown by special sentries," explained Monty, "who areposted to watch the hills of Asia for this flash, and warn thetroops to take cover."

"Take cover," I said to my men.

The shell was on its way, but, as it had a journey of seven miles tomake across the Dardanelles, a certain time must elapse before weshould hear the shriek of the shell as it raced towards us. Itseemed an extraordinary time. We knew the shell was coming with itsdestiny, involving our life or death, irrevocably determined, andyet we heard nothing. The men, under such cover as they could find,were silent in their suspense. Then the shell roared over our heads,seeming so low that we cowered to avoid it. It exploded a score ofyards away. A shower of earth rained upon us, but no splintertouched anyone. The men whistled in their relief and laughed.

"Does this happen often?" I asked Monty, when I found I was stillalive.

"Every few minutes. It's ten o'clock. We embark at midnight."

"I'm moving my men, then. Asiatic Annie has the range of this spottoo well."

I marched my company down to the beach, and told them to takeshelter under the lee of the cliff. We had scarcely got there beforeAnnie's wicked eye sparkled from Asia, the warning whistles blew,and, after crying "There she is!" we waited spellbound for theimminent shriek. The shell burst in the surf, scattering shingle andspray over every one of us.

"You'd think they'd seen us move," I said, listening for the groansof any wounded. None came, but I heard instead the sound of muffledvoices and marching feet, and saw men moving through the darknessalong the brink of the sea like a column of Stygian shades. It wasthe battalion arriving, with other units of the East CheshireBrigade.

"I know what'll happen, Rupert," said Monty, when these men hadcrowded the beach and the hill-slope. "Some drunken Turk will leanagainst that old gun in Asia, and just push it far enough to perfectit* aim."

And he looked round upon the mass of men and shuddered.

It was getting cold, and we huddled ourselves up on the beach. Someof us were indifferent in our fatalism to the shells of AsiaticAnnie; if our time had come—well, Kismet. Others, like myself,waited fascinated. I know I had almost hungered for that meaningflash in Asia, the terrible delight of suspense, the rush ofthrills, and the sudden arresting of the heart as the shellexploded.

§4

Then, about one o'clock, the moon broke the clouds and lit theoperations with a white light. It should have filled us with dismay,but instead it seemed the beginning of brighter things. The mengroaned merrily and burst into a drawling song:

And Monty, hearing them, whispered one of his delightfullyout-of-place remarks:

"Aren't they wonderful, Rupert? I could hug them all, but I wishthey'd come to Mass."

The moon, moreover, showed us comforting things. There was the oldRedbreast lying off Cape Helles. There were the lighters, crowdedwith men, pushing off from the beach to the waiting boat.

"You could get off on any one of those lighters," said I to Monty."Why don't you go?"

"Why, because we'll leave this old place together."

After he said this I must have fallen from sheer weariness into ahalf-sleep. The next thing I remember was Monty's saying: "Lookalive, Rupert! We're moving now." Glancing round, I saw that mycompany was the last left on the beach. I marshalled themen—twenty-eight of them—on to the lighter.

"Now, get aboard, Rupert," said Monty.

"You first," corrected I. "I'm going to be last off to-night."

"As your senior officer, I order you to go first."

"As the only combatant officer on the beach," I retorted, "I'm O.C.Troops. You're simply attached to me for rations and discipline.Kindly embark."

Monty muttered something about "upstart impudence," and obeyed theO.C. Troops, who thereupon boarded the rocking lighter, andexchanged with one step the fatal Peninsula for the safety of theseas.

On the Redbreast we leaned upon the rail, looking back. The boatbegan to steam away, and Monty, knowing with whom the thoughts ofboth of us lay, said quietly:

"'Tell England—' You must write a book and tell 'em, Rupert, aboutthe dead schoolboys of your generation—

Unable to conquer a slight warming of the eyes at these words, Iwatched the Peninsula pass. All that I could see of it in themoonlight was the white surf on the beach, the slope of HunterWeston Hill, and the outline of Achi Baba, rising behind like amonument.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE END OF RUPERT'S STORY

§1

Let Monty have the last word, for he spoke it well. He spoke it afew days ago, in the late autumn of 1918, that is to say, as the warbreaks up, and nearly three years after we slipped away in themoonlight from W Beach.

In those intervening years the game losers of Gallipoli had avengedthemselves at Bagdad, Jerusalem, and Aleppo. In every field theTurkish Armies had been destroyed: and now the forts of theDardanelles were to be surrendered, and the Narrows thrown open tothe Allies. One wished that the dead on Gallipoli might be awakened,if only for a minute, at the sound of the old language spoken amongthe graves, to see the khaki ashore again, and British ships sailingin triumph up the Straits.

Many of the old Colonel's visions of the emancipation of the Arabworld, and the control of the junction of the continents, had thusbeen realised. And a nobler crusade than that which he saw in theDardanelles campaign had been fought and won by the army whichentered Jerusalem. And, note it well, the men who won thesevictories were in great part the men who escaped from Suvla andHelles. For, like the Suvla Army, the whole Helles Army escaped. Andthe Turk was a fool to let them go.

But, before I give you Monty's last word, let me tell you where I amat this moment. It is early evening, and I am writing these closinglines, in which I bid you farewell, sitting on the floor of mykennel-like dug-out in a Belgian trench. There is a most gloriousbombardment going on overhead. It has thundered over our trench fordays and nights on to the German lines, which to-morrow, when we goover the top, we shall capture, as surely as we captured the one Iam sitting in now. Yes, Turkey is out of the game; Bulgaria is outof it; Austria is crying for quarter; and Germany is disintegratingbefore our advance.

Our bombardment is the most uplifting and exciting thing. So fast dothe shells fly over and detonate on the enemy ground that it isalmost impossible to distinguish the isolated shell-bursts; they arelost in one dense fog of smoke. Just now we ceased to be rational aswe stood watching it. "That's the stuff to give 'em!" cried a Tommyin his excitement. "Pump it over! Pump it over!" and, as some Germansand-bags flew into the air: "Gee! Look at that! Are we downhearted?NO! 'Ave we won? YES!" And I wanted to throw up my hat and cheer.There seized me the sensation I got when my house was winning on thefootball-ground at school. "We're on top! On top of the Boche, andhe asked for it!"

I have now returned to my dug-out, feeling it in my heart to besorry for the Germans. I am impatient to finish my story, for we goover the top in the morning.

§2

It is in a letter just arrived from my mother that we find Monty'slast word—his footnote to this history. She describes a ceremonywhich she attended at Kensingtowe, the unveiling of a memorial inthe chapel to the Old Kensingtonians who fell at Gallipoli. Monty,as an old Peninsula padre, had been invited to preach the sermon. Mymother writes in her womanly way:

"He preached a wonderful sermon. We all thought him like a man who had seen terrible things, and was passionately anxious that somehow good should come of it all.

"Calvary, he said, was a sacrifice offered by a Holy Family. There was a Father Who gave His Son, because He so loved the world; a mother who yielded up her child, whispering (he doubted not): 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord'; and a Son Who went to His death in the spirit of the words: 'In the volume of the Book it was written of me that I should do Thy will, O my God; I am content to do it.'

"And, in days to come, England must remember that once upon a time she, too, was a Holy Family; for there had been years in which she was composed of fathers who so loved the world that they gave their sons; of mothers who whispered, as their boys set their faces for Gallipoli or Flanders: 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord' (and oh, Rupert, I felt so ashamed to think how badly I behaved that last night before you went to Gallipoli—how rebellious I was!). He went on to speak of the sons, and what do you think he said? He spoke of one who, the evening before the last attack at Cape Helles, asked him: 'Will you take care of these envelopes, in case—' He declared that this simple sentence was, in its shy English way, a reflection of the words: 'It was written of me that I should do Thy will; I am content to do it.'

"That boy, an old Kensingtonian, was mortally hit in the morning. There was another with him, also an old Kensingtonian, who was still alive, and might yet come marching home with the victorious army.

"I lost his next words, for there I broke down. But I seem to remember his saying:

"'All men and all nations are the better for remembering that once they were holy. England's past, then, is holy; her future is unwritten. But Idealism is mightily abroad among those who shall make the England that is to be. And all that remains for the preacher to say is this: Nothing but Christianity will ever gather in that harvest of spiritual ideals which alone will make good our prodigal outlay; for, after all, we have sown the world with the broken dreams and spilled ambitions of a generation of schoolboys....

"'All you who have suffered, you fathers and mothers, remember this: only by turning your sufferings into the seeds of God-like things will you make their memory beautiful.'

"Oh, Rupert, I was elevated by all he said, and I prayed that you might go on with willingness and resolution to the end, and that I might face the last few weeks of the war with courage. I thought of the remark of your old Cheshire Colonel, that, instead of wandering during these years among the undistinguished valleys, you have been transferred straight to the mountain-tops. Do you remember how I used to call you 'my mountain boy'? The name has a new meaning now. Even if you are in danger at this time, I try to be proud. I think of you as on white heights."

§3

"Only by turning your sufferings into the seeds of God-like thingswill you make their memory beautiful."

As I copied just now those last words of Monty's sermon, I laid downmy pencil on the dug-out floor with a little start. As in aflashlight I saw their truth. They created in my mind the picture ofthat Ægean evening, when Monty turned the moment of Doe's death,which so nearly brought me discouragement and debasem*nt, into anennobling memory. And I foresaw him going about healing the sores ofthis war with the same priestly hand.

Yes, there are reasons why such wistful visions should haunt me now.Everything this evening has gone to produce a certain exaltation inme. First, there has been the bombardment, with its thought of goingover the top to-morrow. Then comes my mother's glowing letter, whichsomehow has held me enthralled, so that I find sentences from itreiterating themselves in my mind, just as they did in the oldschooldays. And lastly, there has been the joyous sense of havingcompleted my book, on which for three years I have laboured lovinglyin tent, and billet, and trench.

I meant to close it on the last echo of Monty's sermon. But thefascination was on me, and I felt I wanted to go on writing. I hadso lost myself in the old scenes of schoolroom, playing-fields,starlit decks, and Grecian battlegrounds, which I had beendescribing, that I actually ceased to hear the bombardment. And theatmosphere of the well-loved places and well-loved friends remainedall about me. It was the atmosphere that old portraits and fadingold letters throw around those who turn them over. So I took upagain my pencil and my paper.

I thought I would add a paragraph or two, in case I go down in themorning. If I come through all right, I shall wipe these paragraphsout. Meanwhile, in these final hours of wonder and waiting, it ishappiness to write on.

I fear that, as I write, I may appear to dogmatise, for I am stillonly twenty-two. But I must speak while I can.

What silly things one thinks in an evening of suspense and twilightlike this! One minute I feel I want to be alive this time to-morrow,in order that my book, which has become everything to me, may have ahappy ending. Pennybet fell at Neuve Chapelle, Doe at Cape Helles,and one ought to be left alive to save the face of the tale. Still,if these paragraphs stand and I fall, it will at least be a trueending—true to things as they were for the generation in which wewere born.

And the glorious bombardment asserts itself through my thoughts, andwith a thrill I conceive of it—for we would-be authors are personsobsessed by one idea—as an effort of the people of Britain to makeit possible for me to come through unhurt and save my story. I feelI want to thank them.

Another minute I try to recapture that moment of ideal patriotismwhich I touched on the deck of the Rangoon. I see a death in NoMan's Land to-morrow as a wonderful thing. There you stand exactlybetween two nations. All Britain with her might is behind your back,reaching down to her frontier, which is the trench whence you havejust leapt. All Germany with her might is before your face. Perhapsit is not ill to die standing like that in front of your nation.

I cannot bear to think of my mother's pain, if to-morrow claims me.But I leave her this book, into which I seem to have poured my life.It is part of myself. No, it is myself—and I shall only returnher what is her own.

Oh, but if I go down, I want to ask you not to think it anything buta happy ending. It will be happy, because victory came to thenation, and that is more important than the life of any individual.Listen to that bombardment outside, which is increasing, ifpossible, as the darkness gathers—well, it is one of the lastbefore the extraordinary Sabbath-silence, which will be the Allies'Peace.

And, if these pages can be regarded as my spiritual history, theywill have a happy ending, too. This is why.

In the Mediterranean on a summer day, I learned that I was topursue beauty like the Holy Grail. And I see it now in everything. Iknow that, just as there is far more beauty in nature than ugliness,so there is more goodness in humanity than evil. There is morehappiness in life than pain. Yes, there is. As Monty used to say, weare given now and then moments of surpassing joy which outweighdecades of grief, I think I knew such a moment when I won theswimming cup for Bramhall. And I remember my mother whispering onenight: "If all the rest of my life, Rupert, were to be sorrow, thelast nineteen years of you have made it so well worth living."Happiness wins hands down. Take any hundred of us out here, and forten who are miserable you will find ninety who are lively andlaughing. Life is good—else why should we cling to it as wedo?—oh, yes, we surely do, especially when the chances are allagainst us. Life is good, and youth is good. I have had twentyglorious years.

I may be whimsical to-night, but I feel that the old Colonel wasright when he saw nothing unlovely in Penny's death; and that Montywas right when he said that Doe had done a perfect thing at thelast, and so grasped the Grail. And I have the strange idea thatvery likely I, too, shall find beauty in the morning.

THE END