old you are, say you’ll be eighteen on your next birthday, which will be
true."  And he gladly did so.  But the aunt was fearfully crafty as well
as warlike, for when "Turbot" decided to go off and enlist at Plymouth
under his own name, she pointed out that he would instantly be traced by
Dr. Dunston, and ignominiously dragged back out of the Army to Merivale.
So she advised him to take a train to the North of England, and enlist
up there, which he did do.  And he changed his name to Ted Marmaduke,
and the enlisting people in the North never smelt a rat, and were quite
agreeable to take him when he said he would be eighteen next birthday.
And such was the fine strategy of the aunt that she expressly made
"Turbot" promise not to write a line to her till he was under orders for
the Front.  Therefore, when she was asked if she knew where he was, she
could honestly say she didn’t.

Of course, long before he came back wounded, he was entirely forgotten
at Merivale, and when Fortescue discovered him in our Red Cross
Hospital, and then confessed that he had always believed this was what
"Turbot" had really done, the excitement became great, and many of the
chaps asked to be allowed to go and see him, and some were allowed to do
so.

But it was not till the "Turbot" had recovered, and was going back to
fight, that Dr. Dunston forgave him; and he never forgave the aunt.

Yet that amazing aunt was more than a fine strategist; she was a prophet
also, for Fortescue found out in the papers that Ted Marmaduke, of the
3rd Yorkshires, was promoted a sergeant, and had won the D.C.M. for
splendid bravery in Gallipoli, just as his aunt had always prophesied he
would.  Of course, she came to see him at the hospital, but she didn’t
come to Merivale.

When he got nearly right, the old "Turbot" took tea at Merivale, and the
Doctor let the past bury the past, as they say, and made a speech, and
hoped that the chaps would follow "Turbot’s" lead in certain directions,
though not in all.  But privately to the "Turbot" he said more than
this. In fact, he dug up the past again, and reminded "Turbot" that he
should not do evil that good may come.

And "Turbot" quite saw this, and said he never would again.

Then he went back to the wars once more, and had good luck, I’m glad to
say, and before he’d been a soldier eighteen months, he got his
commission.  For though such a mug at school, the military instinct was
in him all the time, and the War naturally brought it out.  When he
became Lieutenant Bradwell, his guardian tried to make friends again;
but he scorned him, as well he might, though no doubt he will always be
friendly with his crafty aunt, for you may say that he owed pretty well
everything to her masterly mind.

                       CORNWALLIS AND ME AND FATE

Dr. Dunston was always awfully great on the classic idea of Fate.  He
made millions of efforts to make us understand it, but failed.  Blades
said he understood it, and so did Abbott, and, of course, the Sixth said
they did.  But they always pretend to understand everything, including
the War. Fate is the same as Greek tragedy, and a very difficult subject
indeed.

Anyway, Cornwallis and me couldn’t understand Fate, or how it worked
exactly, until that far-famous whole holiday and the remarkable
adventure which made Cornwallis and me blaze out into great fame, though
only for a short while.  As long as it lasted, however, the fame was
wonderful; for the sudden, curious result of being somebody, after you
have for many years been nobody, not only leaves its mark on your own
character, but quite changes the opinion of other people about you, and
also the way they behave to you. Enemies slack off and even offer to
become friends, and people who have been your friends when you were
nobody, redouble in their affection, and even get a sort of feeble fame
themselves, owing to being able to approach you as a matter of course
and not as a favour.

All this happened to Cornwallis and me; and though fame is said to have
a very bad effect on some people, and make them get above themselves,
like the Germans and Austrians, for instance, in our case, though
dazzling in its way, the fame died out almost as quickly as it sprang
up.  In fact, to show you what people are, and what envy may do, just as
Cornwallis and me began to sink back into our usual obscurity in the
Lower Third, some beasts, such as Pegram and the master, Brown, said in
public that the whole excitement was a mild attack of hysteria and utter
footle, and that neither Cornwallis nor me had done anything but make
little asses of ourselves, and that it was all pure luck and not fame at
all.

But, anyway, the adventure did this for Cornwallis and also for me--it
explained what the Doctor really meant by Fate; and afterwards we were
always tremendously keen about Fate, and spoke well of it, though
before, it had, if anything, rather bored us, because, at the age of
ten, your fate is generally so far off.  Until the great adventure I
can’t honestly say I had seen Fate bothering about Cornwallis, and he
had never seen it bothering in the least about me; but afterwards,
having, as you may say, got thoroughly to understand its ways, and its
special interest in us on a very important occasion--in fact, what you
might call a matter of life and death--we always felt a sharp interest
in it, and often noticed little marks of Fate at work both in school and
out--sometimes for us and sometimes for other people.  Not, of course,
always for us, because, as Cornwallis said, and I agreed, we weren’t
everybody, and when it came to prizes and getting into "elevens," and
other advantages, Fate undoubtedly favoured various chaps far more than
us.  But as I pointed out to Cornwallis, after saving our lives in a
very ingenious and unexpected way, no doubt it had done enough for us
for some years, and intended to give us a rest.  We both saw the
fairness of this, and did not complain in the least at our rather bad
failures in the Lower Third afterwards.  But, curiously enough, Dr.
Dunston, though so well up in Greek tragedy and the ways of Fate as a
rule, missed this, and said our reports were a scandal and a source of
the utmost discomfort to him, and far from showing our gratitude to Fate
as we ought to have shown it after the terrible affair of "Foster Day."

"Foster Day" was an important day at Merivale. It arose from the mists
of antiquity, as they say, because among the first pupils old Dunston
ever had, when he started Merivale, was a chap called Foster.  He was
very rich, and his father lived at Daleham, on the sea coast, and had a
mansion and thousands of acres of land running down to the sea.  This
Foster seems to have liked the Doctor, and been a great success at
Merivale; and his rich father evidently liked the Doctor, too, and so,
when young Foster had the bad luck to fall for his country in the Boer
War, the rich father Foster built a beautiful and precious chapel to his
memory at Daleham, and had his soldier son carved in pure marble and put
in the chapel.  It was known as a memorial chapel, and simply couldn’t
be beaten in its way.  And, not content with doing this, the rich father
arranged with Dunston that fifty boys from Merivale should once every
year come to a service in this chapel, and, after the service was over,
be entertained in his grounds and on the sea-shore with games and
luscious foods. The Doctor fell in with this excellent plan readily, and
now for some years, on the seventh day of July, which was the day the
splendid young soldier Foster had fallen, fifty chaps from Merivale
drove over in brakes to Daleham and attended the memorial service, and
sang a hymn, and afterwards enjoyed themselves in the spacious grounds
and on the beach.  For though not actually belonging to the rich old
Foster, the beach finished off his estates, and so he had a special sort
of right to it, and had built a boat-house, where he kept a steam launch
and other vessels.

The day came round as usual, and, by rather exceptional luck, Cornwallis
and myself got into the fifty, for nobody was barred, and it was always
arranged that a certain number of chaps from the lower school should
join the giddy throng.  So we went in white flannels and the school
blazers, little knowing what lay before us.

The day was slightly clouded by the fact that Brown was the master who
took us, for Brown loves to display his power before strangers, and make
us look as small as possible in order that he may shine.  But the great
Mr. Foster--though what he had done that was great I don’t know--saw
through Brown with ease, and told him we must do what we liked, and have
a good time in every way--not, in fact, hampered by Brown.

After the service in the chapel, where some good singing was done by us,
and a clergyman preached a rather longish sermon on duty and so on, the
solemn business of the day began, and we had an ample meal.  When I tell
you that there were enough raspberries and cream for all, I need add no
more.  If all those raspberries had been put in one pile, we should have
had "no small part of a mountain," as Virgil so truly says.

The great thing after dinner was to go and bathe and ramble on the
shore.  This was the time that Brown could be most easily escaped, and
as he had to keep his attention on the chaps who went swimming, those
who did not were able to enjoy themselves in various interesting ways.

The tide was out, and, by a little dodging behind rocks, Cornwallis and
me, who did not bathe, were able gradually, as it were, to slip out of
the danger zone; which we did do.  A magnificent and interesting beach
spread out before us, and we decided to explore it.  So we retreated
fast for some distance till a cliff jutted out and entirely concealed
us, and then we went slower and explored as we went.  Cornwallis had a
watch, and as there was no serious work on hand till tea at five
o’clock, we had more than two hours.

We did some natural history, and found small pools full of marine
wonders, such as sea anemones and blenny fish, which in skilled hands
can be made as tame as white mice, and can live out of the sea between
tides.  We also collected shells, and, much to my amusement, I collected
one shell which I thought was empty, until I felt a gentle crawling in
my trousers pocket, and discovered that a hermit crab lived in the
shell, and was frantically trying to escape.  This, of course, I allowed
him to do, and no doubt he is puzzling to this day about what happened
to upset his usual life.

On we went, and then the beach got narrower, and I said it was natural,
but Cornwallis thought not.  He thought the tide was coming in, which
would account for the increasing narrowness of the beach.

I said:

"In that case, Cornwallis, we had better go back, because you can see,
by the marks on the cliffs, that the tide will come here in large
quantities, and, in fact, the water will be jolly deep."

And Cornwallis said he supposed it would.  The time also was getting on,
and we found it was past four.  But, of course, we meant getting back
fast, with an occasional run, and had allowed half the time to get back
that we allowed to go out.

We were just turning, after going a few hundred yards farther, when a
most interesting thing appeared.  The cliffs hung over rather, and were
made of red sandstone, and very steep; but ahead of us was a ledge of
rock half-way up the cliff, and on it a mysterious little house made of
bits of old boat and painted with tar.  It was extraordinary to see such
a thing in such a lonely spot, and Cornwallis, who is rather suspicious,
owing to the War and being a Boy Scout, wondered if it was all right.
Because, if you are once a Boy Scout, as Travers minor pointed out, you
are always a Boy Scout, and though you may not be scouting in a
professional sort of way, yet, if anything peculiar happens, or you get
a chance of doing good to the country, you must instantly look into it.

So Cornwallis decided to go and examine this queer shed, and I went with
him.  The door was open, but we saw no signs of life.  It was a solid
building made of heavy timbers, and there was a padlock on the door.
Inside was a pleasant smell of tar and cobbler’s wax and fish.  It
seemed to belong to a mariner of some sort; but, on the other hand, what
mariner could possibly want to make his house in such a weird spot?
There was no bed or washing basin or chest of drawers, to show that the
stranger lived here, but there were many interesting things, including a
lobster-pot, a telescope, and a large lantern of the sort used on board
ship.

I saw nothing peculiarly suspicious, but Cornwallis did.  From the first
he took rather a serious view of it, and when he found a green tin full
of petrol, his face went white, and he said it was Fate.

I said:

"What the dickens do you mean, Cornwallis?"

And he said:

"I mean, Towler, that this is the hiding-place of a German spy.  There’s
a telescope with which he picks up periscopes, and there’s a lamp, with
which he signals to the submarines by night, and there’s the petrol he
takes to them to replenish their tanks. And this shows the Doctor was
right: you can get Fate in real life as well as Greek tragedies."

And I said:

"But the prawn-nets and fishing-lines and corks and paint, and so on?"

And he said:

"These things are merely blinds to distract the eye from the others."

So I said:

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

And he said:

"I am going straight back, and after tea, or even before, I shall tell
the great Mr. Foster there is a pro-German traitor under his cliff, and
offer to show him the way to the spot."

"I’ll help," I said.  "But the thing is to be careful, and surprise the
spy at his work."

Just as I said these words, curiously enough, the spy surprised us, and
we found ourselves in a position that wanted enormous presence of mind.
Suddenly we heard the sound of heavy feet outside, and as there was only
one way up to the hut, it was clear we could not escape without being
seen.  And if seen, of course, our object was lost, for the spy would
make a bolt of it.

The question was where to hide, and, by the best possible luck, there
was a chance to do so.  A big tarpaulin hung on a nail on the side of
the hut, and it was of great size, and came nearly to the ground, while
at its feet was a seaman’s box. Owing to the fortunate smallness of
Cornwallis and me, there was ample room for concealment behind the
tarpaulin, and our feet were hidden by the box.  So we got behind it and
hardly dared to breathe, though, just before the traitor came in,
Cornwallis had time to whisper to me:

"If he’s come for his tarpaulin coat, we’re done for, and he’ll very
likely kill us!"

And I whispered to him:

"Be hopeful.  Fate may be on our side, and it’s not the weather for a
tarpaulin coat, anyway."

Then the spy came in, and though I was not able to see him, Cornwallis,
by a lucky chance, got a buttonhole of the coat level with his eye, and
saw the fearful spectacle of the spy.

He was a dreadful object, with wickedness fairly stamped on him, so
Cornwallis said afterwards. He was a big man with humpbacked shoulders
and a cocoanut-like head, far too small for his body and legs.  He was
grey, and had a shaggy beard and a wide mouth that showed his teeth.
These were broken and black.  His nose was flat and small, and his eyes
rolled in his head as he looked round his hut.  They were black and
ferocious to a most savage extent.  He kept making a snorting sound,
which was his manner of breathing.  He wore dirty white trousers and a
jersey, and upon his feet were dirty canvas shoes.  He had no hat, and
he didn’t look the sort of person that Fate would be interested in.  But
you never know.  He suspected nothing, and had not seen us come in,
which was the great fear in my mind.

The creature did not stop long, yet long enough to give himself away for
ever as a spy, for he took one of the green tins of petrol, and then,
saying some English swear words to himself of the worst kind, went out
and slammed the door behind him. We nearly shouted with joy, but a
moment later our joy was changed into the most terrible sorrow, because
the spy fastened the door behind him.  We heard a chain rattle and a
padlock click, so there we were, entirely at the mercy of a creature
evidently quite dead to pity in every way.  This was, of course, Fate
again, as Cornwallis pointed out.

There was a window about a foot square high up in the roof of the hut,
and when the spy shut the door and locked us in, everything became dark
excepting for the light from this narrow window. Therefore, when we were
sure our enemy had gone, and there was not a sound outside, I got on to
a table, and Cornwallis climbed on my back, from which he was able to
look out through the window. Luckily it faced the sea, and Cornwallis
reported that the sea had come a great deal nearer, and that the spy was
only about fifty yards off.  He stood on a sort of pier of rocks, and
was pulling in a rope to which was attached a small motor-boat.

Then naturally I wanted to get on Cornwallis’s shoulders, but he told me
not to move for a moment.  Then he said that the spy had got into the
boat and was evidently going to sea.  And then he said he had gone.

I next climbed on to Cornwallis, and so proved the truth of his words,
for I distinctly saw the motor-boat speed off with the spy in it.  I
also saw that the tide had come in, and soon it was actually beating
against the rocks twenty-five feet or so below us.

When the motor-boat had disappeared in a westerly direction, Cornwallis
and me got down off the table and considered what we ought to do.

"The first thing is to make every possible effort to escape at any
cost," I said.  But he said that he had already thought of that, and
felt pretty certain it was beyond our power.  The window seemed the only
hopeful place; but it was made not to open, and the glass was thick, and
Cornwallis said we couldn’t have got through the hole, even if there had
been no glass.  But I said:

"It is well known, Cornwallis, that if a man can get his head through a
hole, he can get his body through."

And he said:

"It isn’t well known at all.  You might because you have got a head like
a tadpole, but I couldn’t."

I said I was sure I had read it somewhere, but, anyway, it didn’t
matter.  We examined the hut thoroughly, and found it was only too well
and solidly made.  We were utter prisoners, in fact, and, owing to the
spy not knowing it, might very likely be left to die of starvation.  He
might even have gone to join a submarine, and never come back.

"Perhaps he does know we are here all the time," said Cornwallis.
"Perhaps he spotted us, and pretended he didn’t.  In that case he may
have locked us in deliberately to starve us, not caring to waste a shot
on us."

This thought depressed us a good deal, and presently the sun sank and
the light began to fade, and a seagull that settled outside on the roof
uttered a melancholy and doleful squawk.

Of course, we were far from despairing yet, and Cornwallis made a
cheerful remark, and reminded me that if we had eaten our last meal on
earth, at any rate it was a jolly good one.

And I said:

"There may be food concealed here, for that matter.  We’d better have a
good hunt, and look into every hole and corner before it is dark."

This we did without success.  There were many strange things there,
including pieces of wreckage, a bit of an old ship’s steering-wheel, and
a brass bell with a ship’s name on it; but there was nothing eatable
excepting some fish to bait a lobster-pot; and the fish hadn’t been
caught yesterday, and we had by no means reached the stage of exhaustion
in which we could regard it as food.

Cornwallis said:

"As a matter of fact, our great enemy will be thirst.  I am frightfully
thirsty already, for that matter."

And I said:

"So am I, now you mention it."

As the light died away, we held a sort of a council, and tried to decide
what exactly was our duty--to England firstly, and to ourselves
secondly. We talked a good deal, until our voices grew queer to
ourselves, and it all came back to the same simple fact--our duty was to
get out, and we couldn’t.

Then I had the best idea that had yet come to us.

I said:

"As we can’t get out, we must try and get somebody in the outer world to
let us out.  The only question is, shall we attract anybody but the spy
if we raise an alarm?"

Cornwallis said of course that was the question; but it didn’t matter,
because we couldn’t raise an alarm.

I said:

"If we howl steadily together once every sixty seconds by your watch,
like a minute-gun at sea, somebody is bound to hear sooner or later."

And he said:

"Far from it, Towler.  We shall only tire ourselves out, and get hungry,
as well as thirsty, for no good.  Our voices wouldn’t go any distance
through these solid walls, and, even if they did, we are evidently in a
frightfully lonely and secluded place, miles and miles from
civilization, else the spy wouldn’t have chosen it for his operations."

I admitted this, but we did try a yell or two. The result was feeble,
and I myself said that if any belated traveller heard it, he would only
murmur a prayer and cross himself, and hurry on, like they do in books.
Then Cornwallis decided to break the window.  He didn’t know why
exactly, but he felt he wanted to be up and doing in a sort of way.
Besides, it was beastly fuggy in the spy’s den; so we broke the window
with a boat-hook, and I got on the shoulders of Cornwallis and had a
good yell through it; but no answer came.

Then another idea struck me, and it was undoubtedly this idea that saved
the situation.  We got the old ship’s bell and hung it up on a rope as
near the window as possible, and hammered it with the boat-hook, taking
turns of five minutes each.

This created an immense volume of sound, and though, of course, it was
more--far more--likely to bring the spy back than anybody else, we had
now reached a pitch of despair, and would have even welcomed the spy in
a sort of way. Cornwallis from time to time still worried about our
duty, but I had long passed that, for it was nine o’clock.  So at last I
told him to shut up and hit the bell harder.

It was now quite dark, and from time to time heavy drops of rain fell
through the window.  The sea-going lamp would have been very useful now,
for we might have signalled with it; but though there was an oil-lamp in
it, we had no matches, and it was therefore useless.

Then, in a lull, when I was handing over the boat-hook to Cornwallis,
whose turn it was to hammer the bell, we distinctly heard the stealthy
sound of the motor-boat returning, and Cornwallis, mounting my
shoulders, and nearly breaking my neck in his excitement, reported a red
light below.

Then he heard several harsh voices.

Cornwallis said:

"We are now probably done for, Towler.  The spy has evidently been to a
submarine, and he’s heard the bell, and you can pretty easily guess what
submarine Germans will do to us.  In fact, our Fate is right bang off."

I said:

"Surely they wouldn’t kill two kids like us?"

And he said:

"Killing kids is their chief sport.  They can’t be too young--from
babies upward."

So it looked pretty putrid in every way, and it wouldn’t be true, and it
wouldn’t be believed, if I said Cornwallis and me weren’t in the funk of
our lives.

But the awful moments didn’t last long, for, almost before the padlock
was undone, what should we hear but the well known yelp of Brown!

Our first thought was that the crew of a German submarine had also got
Brown; but even in our present condition we felt that was too mad.  All
the same, when he actually appeared, with two other men and the spy, he
looked such a ghastly object, and was so white and wild, that it seemed
clear that he was in a mess of some kind.

What he said when we both appeared in the lantern light was:

"Thank God!"

For the first and last time in his life he was apparently glad to see
us.  But after this expression of joy, he instantly became beastly, and,
in fact, so much so, that a man behind him, who did not fear him, told
him not to talk so roughly to us at such a moment.

This man turned out to be no less a man than the great Mr. Foster
himself, and he explained to us that we had put everybody to frightful
anxiety and distress, and that, in fact, he had feared the worst.

This much surprised us, and what surprised us still more was Mr.
Foster’s attitude to the spy, for he called him "Joe," and treated him
in a most friendly manner.

We all went back to the motor-boat, and while it tore away to the
landing-place under Mr. Foster’s beach, we told our story.  During this
narrative, which was listened to very carefully, the man called Joe made
several remarks of a familiar nature, which showed he was not in the
least afraid of anybody, and we found out later that he was an old and
trusted servant of Mr. Foster’s, who lived at Daleham, and who managed
Mr. Foster’s motorboat, and caught lobsters for him and fish of many
kinds, and was, in fact, a sort of family friend of long standing.  It
was admitted, however, that Joe was very queer to look at, and also odd
in his ways.  This arose entirely from his peculiar Fate, because Fate
had had a dash at him too, and when a young man, he had once gone out
fishing, and returned to find that during his absence his wife had run
away for ever with another mariner.  This was such a surprise to him
that it had quite turned his head for a time, and, in fact, he had been
odd ever since.

Having told our tale, we ventured to ask why everybody had feared the
worst, and Mr. Foster explained the situation, and showed what a
splendid and remarkable bit of work Fate had really done for Cornwallis
and me.

He said:

"What did you intend to do when you left Joe’s hut?"

And I said:

"We were going to tear back along the beach, sir, and give the alarm,
because we thought he was a pro-German spy."

Joe gurgled at this, but did not condescend to answer.

"And do you know what would have happened in that case?" asked Mr.
Foster.

"You would have explained to us that we were on a false scent, sir,"
said Cornwallis.

"No, my child, I should not," answered Mr. Foster, "for the very good
reason that I should never have seen either of you again alive.  Nor
would anybody else.  If you had started to go back by the beach, you
would both have been overtaken by the tide and most certainly been
drowned."

"Crikey!" said Cornwallis under his breath to me.

"Yes," continued the good and great Mr. Foster, "if Joe here, quite
ignorant of the fact that you were trespassing in his store shed, had
not turned the key upon you both, you would neither of you be alive to
tell your story now."

Somehow we never thought we were trespassing, but doing our duty to
England.  It just shows how different a thing looks from different
points of view.

"You ought to be very thankful," said Mr. Foster, "and I hope this
terrible experience will leave its mark in your hearts, my boys.  You
have been spared a sad and untimely death, and I trust that the memory
of this night will help you both to justify your existence in time to
come."

We said we trusted it would.

Then Brown, of course, put in his oar.

"And if you had used your eyes, Towler and Cornwallis, as I have tried
so often to make you," he squeaked, "you would have seen a notice on the
cliff warning people not to go beyond a certain point, as the tides were
very dangerous."

"We were studying the wonders of Nature, sir," I answered, in rather a
sublime tone of voice, because this was no time for sitting on
Cornwallis and me.  And just then the motor-boat came to shore, and it
was found that we could catch the last train back to Daleham.  So we
caught it.  Of course, all the other chaps had gone back in the brakes
ages ago.

Mr. Foster blessed us, before the train started, in a very affectionate
and gentlemanly way; but Brown did not bless us on the journey back.  In
fact, he said that he should advise the Doctor to flog us.  We preserved
a dignified silence.  He couldn’t send a telegram on in advance, as the
office was shut, and therefore, when we arrived at Merivale, it was
rather triumphant in a way, and the news of our safe return created a
great sensation.  In the excitement, food for us was overlooked
entirely, until Cornwallis told the matron we had had nothing to eat
since dinner.  Food was then provided.  The Doctor said very little
until the following day, and then he told the whole story to the school
after morning prayers; and not until we heard it from him did we realize
what a good yarn it really was.

But nothing was done against us, much to Brown’s disappointment, and
from the way he hated Cornwallis and me afterwards, I believe he got
ragged in private for not keeping his eye on us.

We wrote a very sporting letter to Mr. Foster, and said we should not
forget his great kindness as long as we lived; and we also wrote home
and scared up ten pounds for Joe, because he had locked us up and saved
our lives.  It was an enormous lot of money, and far beyond what we
expected.  My father sent five, and the mother of Cornwallis also sent
five; and Cornwallis truly said it showed that my father and his mother
mast think much more highly of our lives than they had ever led us to
believe.

In fact, so excited was the mother of Cornwallis about it that she
couldn’t wait till the end of the term, but had to come and see him and
kiss him, and realize that he was still all there.  But my father waited
till the end of the term for me.

He is rather a hard sort of man, compared to such a man as Mr. Foster,
for instance; and when I did go home and explained all about what Fate
had done, he said he hoped that I would not give Fate cause to regret
it--at any rate, during the summer holidays.

                           FOR THE RED CROSS

Of course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our
trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in
general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the
wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.

Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory,
as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap’s credit, and he gets
a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly
put it, we weren’t so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter
irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston,
whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from
urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the
last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most
extraordinary success.

There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who
sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don’t think any one chap could
take the credit.  It was too big a thing for one chap’s mind, and you
might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it.  It
grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after
he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he
reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became
the wonderful thing it was.

The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross,
and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we
did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters
whatever.  A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were
overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power
whatever in the masters.  The only one who would have been any good in
that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of
great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift
that could lure a paying audience.  No doubt they might have tried, but,
as Tracey said, you couldn’t ask people to pay good money just for the
doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying.  So it was settled that as
there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the
school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported
this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but
Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself
in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a
backbone to the show.  What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone,
we didn’t ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the
people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen
before, was worth all the money, if not more.

Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help,
and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at
one time it rather looked as if it might not.

It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to
give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up,
and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations.
Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn’t have much football
that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody’s mind--so
much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the
Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing
would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.

So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them
not one of them should do anything if they didn’t buck up.

Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who
should not.  That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very
difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at
Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying
audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas,
strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on
appearing.  We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The
Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their
sons do something.  Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his
usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort,
because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would
doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.

So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant
of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We
also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a
thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster
Day, when by a fluke they weren’t drowned, and so possessed a passing
interest in Merivale.

The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many
times.  The first programme would have taken about three days to get
through, and Tracey said, as it wasn’t a Wagner Cycle, we’d better try
and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be
encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be
an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink
about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also.  And
if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against
the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the
first.

I am Thwaites, by the way, and, like Percy minor, I hope that I may go
on the stage some day, being much inclined to do so.  But his father is
a professional actor, and so he has a better chance than me, mine being
a Government official in London, who never goes to the theatre, always
being too tired to do anything after his day’s work.  I recite when I
get the chance, and have already acted several times; I also write
poems.  I did not push myself forward in the least, it was agreed, by a
sort of general understanding, except in the mind of Percy minor, that I
should play Shylock in the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice."
And Williams, who is pretty, and had many a time been rotted for his
girl-like eyes and eyelashes, now found that his hour had come, for he
was going to play Portia; and we hoped his beautiful appearance might
carry him through, though at rehearsal it was only too apparent his
acting would not.

The first part of the show was to end with the Shakespearean
impersonation; but this was not all, though, of course, the cream of the
night.  We had in the second half an original satire in one act written
by Tracey, and entitled "The White Feather."  This would be the
concluding item, and as we finally decided that we would have twelve
separate items, that left ten to find.

There were some obvious things, like Percy minimus, who had a ripping
voice, and was accustomed to singing both in and out of chapel.  So,
knowing he was considered class, we put him down for a song; and the
school glee singers were also rather well thought of, and we gave them
two items.  This only left seven performances, and after we had
subtracted most of the chaps who were going to perform in the plays,
there was still an immense amount of mixed ability to choose from.

Of course, Rice had to be in it, though, in his usual sporting way, he
said he could do nothing. But as he was the best boxer in the school,
and almost as good as a professional "fly" weight, we felt no show would
be complete without him, and it was arranged he should box three
exhibition rounds with Bassett.

As Briggs said, with people who pay money, you must give everybody
something they will like; and though the people who would come to see
Shakespeare acted might not be at all the same people who would come to
see Rice hammer Bassett, yet there it was--we didn’t want to disappoint
anybody, because the great thing with a successful entertainment is to
make everybody thoroughly feel that they have had their money’s worth,
as Mitchell pointed out.  He was going to take the money, and sit in the
box and give out the tickets.  He could have done other things, but
chose that himself, having great natural ability in everything of a
financial sort.  And as all the tickets were numbered, we felt it was
safe.  Besides, for the Red Cross, nobody would let his financial
ability lead him astray, so to speak.

Percy minor, the son of the famous professional actor, also wished to
play Shylock, but was put down for a comic song--an art in which he
excelled.  And Tracey wanted to write it for him and make it topical;
but we knew Tracey’s satire, and felt it would not do.  Besides, he’d
already written a whole play, as it was, and was performing the chief
part in it, so we let Percy minor choose his own song, and he chose one
of Albert Chevalier’s, which blended pathos and humour in a very
wonderful way, but was difficult.  This left five items, and it seemed
almost a shame to leave out so much talent; but we finally decided on
Abbott for a conjuring entertainment--him being a flyer at that art--and
on Nicholas, who has the great gift of lightning calculation, though,
strange to say, a fool in everything else.  He stands with his back to a
blackboard, and can divide or add in his head; and if you read him out
ten figures, and then ten more to subtract from them, he can do it in a
moment.  And no doubt he will make his living in this way, though it is
a science that is utterly useless in the world at large.

Allowing for Cornwallis and Towler, there were only two items left, and
I had the good luck to remember there was, so far, nothing about the Red
Cross in the whole show; so we asked Fortescue if he would allow a
recitation of his famous poem on that subject, and he consented if he
was allowed to coach the boy who did it.  We gladly agreed to this, and
Forrester was decided upon for the boy, though he would rather have
given his well known and remarkable imitations of natural sounds, such
as a cock crowing, or a bottle of ginger beer popping, or a man with a
cold in his head, or a distant military band.  It was decided,
therefore, that if Forrester got an encore, he might give the
imitations; but he didn’t, so they were unfortunately lost, though many
a paying audience would have liked them better than the recitation,
splendid as it was.

For the last item of all it was almost impossible to choose between
about ten chaps, and at last, after voting in secret several times, the
Sixth got it down to young Hastings, who could play the fiddle in a
manner seldom heard from a kid of nine years old, and Weston, who was
prepared to black his face and play his banjo.  Finally we decided for
Weston, because he was the eldest, and would be leaving next term but
one, whereas Hastings, being only nine, was bound to have many future
chances of appearing with his fiddle.

So that was the programme, and even when drawn out and written down, it
was pretty staggering, but when actually printed in regular programme
form, it was wonderful, and for my part I didn’t see how the big
schoolroom would hold half the people who were bound to come.  In fact,
I suggested giving two, or even three, performances on consecutive
nights, but this was not approved of.

Being, as you may say, historical, I will here insert the programme.
The price was threepence, or what you liked to give above that sum.
Many gave more; some got copies for nothing, owing to the programme kids
losing their heads about change.  It appeared in this way on pink paper,
faintly scented, and nothing was charged for the scenting by the
printers, so I suppose the scent was their contribution to the Red Cross
Fund.

                           FOR THE RED CROSS

On the seventeenth day of December next, by kind permission of Dr.
Dunston, the scholars of Merivale will give the following entertainment
in the Great Hall of Merivale School at 7.30 p.m.  Doors open at seven
o’clock.  But reserved seats may be booked, and a plan of the room seen
at Messrs. Tomson’s, No. 4, High Street, Merivale.

                             THE PROGRAMME

1.  Song by Percy Minimus (son of the world-famous actor, Thomas Percy).

2.  Conjuring by Abbott (using live rabbits, live goldfish, etc.).

3.  Three Rounds of Exhibition Boxing by Rice (Fly-weight Champion) and
Bassett.  N.B.--The rounds will be of two minutes’ duration.

4.  Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

5.  Recitation, "The Cross of Red."  Words (published in "The Times"
newspaper) by Mr. Fortescue of Merivale School.  Reciter, Forrester.

6.  The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," by William
Shakespeare.  Dramatis Personæ as follows:

Shylock.     Thwaites.
The Duke.    Pegram.
Antonio.     Saunders.
Bassanio.    Preston.
Gratiano.    Percy Minor.
Salerio.     Travers Minor.
Nerissa.     Percy Minimus.
Portia.      Williams.

                              Magnificoes.
           Tudor, Forbes Minimus, Hastings, and five others.
                  Scene: Venice.  A Court of Justice.

        N.B.--The scene will conclude with the exit of Shylock.

                     _An Interval of Ten Minutes._

                                PART II

7.  Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.

                   ("The Three Chafers," by request.)

8.  Comic Song.  Percy Minor (son of the great actor, Thomas Percy).

9.  Lightning calculation.  Nicholas (introduced by Thwaites. Must be
seen to be believed).

10.  Coon Interlude with Banjo.  Weston.

11.  Duet.  Towler and Cornwallis (both nearly drowned last summer on
Foster Day).

12.  A Satire in One Act by Tracey, entitled "The White Feather."

Dramatis Personæ.

Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C.    Tracey.
General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B.        Blades.
A Policeman.                                  Briggs.
Miss Sophia Flapperkin.                       Williams.

Scene: Trafalgar Square.  Time: The Present.

                          _GOD SAVE THE KING._
                       Booking Office: Mitchell.

Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half
a crown, there didn’t seem much chance of anybody not getting their
money’s worth.

I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very
difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many
suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the
imagination, because we couldn’t get within miles of a court in Venice,
and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question.  And Percy minor
said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied
less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back
to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain;
and if people didn’t like it, they could do the other thing.  So we went
back to Elizabethan times.  But we had a professional man from Plymouth
to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were
rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night.  Seen
close, you’re awful, but, of course, it’s all right from the front.

The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for
without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or
two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision.  But
they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine
was too long to the last.  However, nobody noticed, though naturally
they did notice when Antonio’s beard carried away, and it spoilt the
pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any
decent chaps would have.

Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went
off at Tomson’s, and they weren’t gone in a moment, by any means. You
could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and
people put off their booking a good deal.  But when the programme was
out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day.  It was
rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to
go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going.
Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in
the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five.  This news,
we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might
have had them for nothing, which was true.  The masters all took
half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown
why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To
applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we
can."  As a matter of fact, we didn’t want their wretched applause when
the time came, for we got plenty without it.

The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black,
from next door.  He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us,
and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay
instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything;
yet there he was.  He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from
first to last, and he never clapped once.  Yet, extraordinary to say,
the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old
Black, though the amazing affair didn’t come out till next morning.

Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear
thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring
it up to thirty-six.  From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost
of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost
of the programmes and the piano man.  It looked as if we should be good
for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.

Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came
and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed.  In
fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in
Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and
the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore,
after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had
taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and
most did not hide their surprise.

A reporter came from _The Merivale Trumpet_ and Mitchell saw that he had
plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by
reporters, and much depends on it.  He ate and drank well, so we
naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a
most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to
Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.

The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items,
and be perfectly fair about it.  I won’t pretend everything went off as
well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn’t come off at all; but, on
the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting.
And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you
expected, it’s better than if he doesn’t laugh at all.  Besides, we had
to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn’t like a free
show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be.  Because,
when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings;
and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh
in the wrong places, there’s no law against it, and the performers must
jolly well stick it as best they can.

Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was
excellent.  In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not
happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which
Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and
dashed on to the platform.  So when the audience expected Percy back,
instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown
behind.  It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to
conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit.
Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring
Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott
appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by
appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his
assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged
upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is
a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would
have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so
to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an
appearance of great ease, but he couldn’t manage his voice, and he
forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping
secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his
confusion.  The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made
him worse.  I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.

He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about
with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen
contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation
flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did
do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts.  This
fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit
out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it
in first.  It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things
under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who
had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and
defied concealment, so to say.  However, Abbott got a lot of trick
flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the
hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do
this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of
way.  He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with
white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed
off safely for the goldfish.  Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and,
thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried
to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done.
But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards,
got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully
entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal
amused to see it.

Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves.
A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by
the chairs.  It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back
appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped
Bassett’s ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience
gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams.  It was nothing, but
evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped
the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure.
Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but
we had to think of Rice’s feelings, and we also knew that scores of
countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like
in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless
exhibition bout that wouldn’t have shaken a flea.  But it was so, and
consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they
warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered.
Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all
making up for the great Trial Scene.

Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue’s fine poem, but nothing
special.  As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the
best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was
powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.

Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very
smoothly till just the end.  Of course, I can’t say anything about my
rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn’t feel I had gripped the audience
in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and
nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience
thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all.  Pegram rather
overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and
no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once
or twice.  In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a
very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy
minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so
jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the
dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed.  It was a new reading, in a
way, but I didn’t mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after
that the audience wouldn’t take me seriously, though before, I believe,
most of them had.  It spoiled the illusion of the scene.  Portia, in the
hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of
view, awful.  He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before
my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw
him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and
said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!"  Of course, after that, my exit went
for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes,
while in front people were laughing themselves silly.  We got two calls,
and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second
half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things
as Percy minor’s comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were
mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive
and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn’t even
tempt many men to come away from the refreshments.  I dare say many of
them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations
themselves, owing to the War, that they weren’t specially interested in
what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey’s play they all came, and such
applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that
the drama still holds its own.  The idea of "The White Feather" was
certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl
with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by
Minnie Dunston.  This was too small in some places and too big in
others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair,
Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a
creature.  He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from
Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he
manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the
flapper’s expense, and every point he made went with a roar.  Then the
flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir
Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a
frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman.  She cried and
begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the
General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.

The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to
nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King"
when all was over.  For though a professional, and well used to
entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.

Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the
immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing
happen with old Black.  He looked over the playground wall just before
dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something,
and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a
football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?"  And I said I was.

Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."

My first thought was--what had I done?  But as I hadn’t had any row with
old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he
took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing
on it.

"What’s this, sir?" I asked.

"A cheque for the Red Cross," he answered. "A cheque for twenty guineas,
to add to the money from your performance last night."

He was scowling all the time, mind you, and looking as if he hated the
show.

"I’m sure it’s very sporting of you, sir," I said to old Black.

"Not in the least," he replied.  "I laughed more last night than I have
laughed for fifty years. And I only paid half a crown--much too little
for what I got."

I was fearfully amazed.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I didn’t see you laugh once!’

"No," he answered, "and more did anyone else. When I laugh, I laugh
inside, boy, not outside. So do most wise men.  Now be off; and when you
next play Shylock, let me know.  If I’m alive, I’ll come."

So I went, and we cheered old Black from the playground.  He must have
heard us, but he didn’t show up.

Certainly, taking one thing with another, there are many extraordinary
people in the world, and you may be surprised at any moment.  No doubt
it was one of those cases of coming to scoff and remaining to pray that
you hear about, but don’t often actually see.

                          THE LAST OF MITCHELL

There is a great deal of difference between being expelled and "invited
to find another sphere for your activities."  In fact, as my father
said, if Dr. Dunston had expelled me, he would certainly have made a row
about it, and very likely have written to the newspapers.

But old Dunston was a jolly sight too wily for that.  He wrote to my
father when the event happened, and said that circumstances had come to
his ears which made him think, etc., etc., that I had better leave
Merivale.

I am Mitchell, and my father is a financier, and I may say that this
profession embraces a great many branches.

Sometimes, after dinner in holidays, he has allowed me to stop and smoke
a cigarette while he talked to friends, and so I have got a gradual
inkling of what it means to be a financier; and, in a way, this inkling
was my downfall.  Not that I felt it a downfall really to be hoofed out
of Merivale; for it was rather a potty sort of show, and I should have
gone to a far more swagger place if my father had been flusher just at
the time when I had to go somewhere, owing to a trifling bother at
another school.

But I went to Merivale, and just because I tried to take advantage of
what my father had said about finance and apply it to school life, the
difficulties arose.

I gathered off and on from my father, when he was in a talkative frame
of mind, that one of the great arts of a financier is to do deals
between other people.

For instance, you have something to sell, and my father knows it.  And
he routs about and leaves no stone unturned, as they say, until he finds
somebody who wants to buy just what you want to sell. Then, having found
you a customer, my father arranges all the details of the business, and
everybody is satisfied, and my father, for all his time and trouble,
gets richly rewarded.

Then, again, another fine branch of the financier’s art is the floating
of public companies.  To float a company requires great skill and nerve.

The first thing is to find a place a long way off, far beyond the reach
of intending shareholders, in fact.  Then you discover this far-off
country is extraordinarily rich in minerals, or india-rubber, or manure,
or some other useful material which everybody wants.  You send out a
mineral or manure expert to the far-off country, and he is delighted to
find these things in enormous quantities, and sees at a glance that, if
properly managed, they will produce dividends of very likely a hundred
per cent. for the first year, and much more afterwards.

Then my father, or whoever it might be, is glad, and he goes about to
other skilful men who understand companies, and they collect together
and make a board.  The more famous financiers there are upon this board
the better the public likes it; and so the company is floated, and the
public is invited to put in money.

This the public is only too thankful to do, because, of course, the
thing promises so well; and then the shares are quoted on the Stock
Exchange, and the papers are suddenly full of the company some morning,
and the board sits and has a champagne luncheon and arranges its
salaries and so on.

Of course, the people who have found that happy, far-away land, flowing
with minerals and manure and such like, are richly rewarded, as they
deserve to be; and sometimes they take it in money and sometimes in
shares, and sometimes in both.

And all may or may not go well; but the financier, whose business it is
to do these things and float the company, takes care to come out of it
all right in any case--otherwise it is no good being a financier.

There was once a very fine company floated by my father and several of
his scientific friends, for extracting gold from salt water.

It was based on thoroughly sound principles; because science has proved
that there is so much gold in every ton of salt water; and, of course,
if it is there, it can be extracted by modern inventions.  So my father
and others of even greater renown were filled with the idea of promoting
a company to do this.

It was a brilliant and successful company in a way, but did not last
long for some reason.

They started at a place near Margate, I think, with pumps and tubes to
draw in the water, and machinery and professional chemists to get the
gold out of it, and a staff of twenty skilled men, who understood the
complicated mechanism.  And they easily got enough gold from somewhere
to make the prospectus, and also enough to make a brooch for the
manager’s wife; and no doubt they would have got much more in course of
time, but something failed--the water in the English Channel was a bit
off, or some other natural cause--and my father said it would have been
far better for everybody concerned if the works had been put up in the
Isle of Skye, or perhaps in Norway, or in the West Indies, or the Fiji
Islands, where conditions might have been better suited to success.

But gold was none the less made for my father and one or two others,
"though not from the sea," as my father said thoughtfully when
discussing the winding up of the affair.

There is another and even higher branch of the financier’s art--the
loftiest of all in fact.  This consists in floating loans for hard-up
monarchs, and it is absolutely the biggest thing the financier does.  It
wants great skill and delicacy.

You can also float loans for hard-up nations if you understand how to do
it, but there are hundreds of financiers who never reach these dizzy
heights of the profession, just as there are hundreds--you may say
millions--of soldiers who never get above being colonels, and thousands
of clergymen who fall short of becoming bishops.

My father, of course, understood these high branches of his profession,
and once even went so far as to be interested in a loan for a South
American Republic; but before the thing was matured, one side of the
Republic was destroyed by a volcano and the other side by insurgents,
who shot the President and all his best friends; and these events so
shook investors in general that they would not subscribe to that loan,
though the Republic, in its financial extremities, offered fabulous
rates of interest.

I mention my father at such great length just to show the man he was and
to explain my own bent of mind, which lay in the same direction.  He
said once, in a genial mood, that no man had ever made more bricks
without straw than he had.  It seemed to me a very dignified and
original profession, because you are on your own, so to say, and you go
out into the world single-handed, and by simple force of a brilliant
imagination and hard work, win to yourself an honourable position. You
may even get knighted or baroneted, if your financial genius is crowned
with sufficient success to give away a few tons of money to a hospital,
or the "party chest," whatever that is.

So, understanding all these things fairly well, it was natural that I
took the line I did in the affair of Protheroe minimus and young Mayne.
And, whatever the Doctor thought, my father didn’t see any objection to
the operation; and, of course, his opinion was the only one I cared
about.

It was like this.

Young Mayne, though very poor, had a most amazing knack of
prize-winning.  He was in a class where all the chaps were a year older
than him, and yet he always beat them with the greatest ease.  He was
good all round, and thought nothing of raking in prizes term after term.

In fact, it seemed a thousand pities, seeing that he was very poor and
the only son of a lawyer’s clerk, that his great prize-winning powers
were not yielding a better return.  For, not to put too fine a point
upon it, as they say, the prizes at Merivale were piffle of the deepest
dye, and of no money value worth mentioning.  Dr. Dunston went on
getting the same books term after term, and simply unreadable slush was
all you could call them.

The few things that were good were all back numbers, like "Robinson
Crusoe"--all right in themselves, but nobody wants to read them twice;
and then there were school stories that would have made angels weep,
especially one called "St. Winifred’s," in which boys behaved like girls
and blushed if anybody said something dashing. Then there were books
about birds and animals and insects, and for the Lower School the Doctor
used to sink to "Peter Parley" and the "Peep of Day," and such-like
absolute mess of a bygone age.

These things were all bound in blue leather and had a gold owl stamped
upon them, which was the badge of Merivale.

I believe the owl was supposed to be the bird of Athena, and stood for
wisdom, or some such rot. Anyhow, it wasn’t a bad idea in its way, for a
more owlish sort of school than Merivale I never was at.

And young Mayne got more of these books than anybody; but to him they
were as grass, and he thought nothing of them.  Whereas Protheroe
minimus had never won a prize in his life, and wanted one fearfully--not
for itself, but for the valuable effect it would have on his mother.

She was a widow and loved Protheroe minimus best of her three sons.  The
others had taken prizes and were fair fliers at school; but Protheroe
min. was useless except at running.  So, woman-like, just because he
couldn’t get a prize anyhow, his mother was set on his doing so, and
promised him rare rewards if he would only work extra hard, or be extra
good, or extra something, and so scare up a blue book with a gold owl at
any cost.

Well, if you have a financial mind, you will see at a glance that here
was a possible opportunity. At least, so it looked to me.  Because on
the one hand was young Mayne, always fearfully hard up and always
getting prizes at the end of each term as a matter of course; while on
the other hand was Protheroe min., never hard up but never a scholastic
success, so to say, from the beginning of the term to the end--and, of
course, never even within sight of a prize of any sort.

Here it seemed to me was the whole problem of supply and demand in a
nutshell; and the financier instinct cried out in me, as it were, that I
ought to be up and doing.

So I went to young Mayne and said that I thought it was a frightful pity
all his great skill was being chucked away, and bringing no return more
important than the mournful things that he won as prizes.  And he said:

"A time will come, Mitchell."

And then I told him that a time had come.

"I know you sell your prizes for a few bob at home, and that you think
nothing of them," I said. "But I had a bit of a yarn with that kid
Protheroe yesterday, and it seems that what is nothing to you would be a
perfect godsend to him. You may not believe it, but his mother, who is a
bit dotty on him, has promised him five pounds if he will bring home a
prize."

"Five pounds!" said Mayne.  "The best prize old Dun ever gave wasn’t
worth five bob."

"She doesn’t want to sell it--she wants to keep it for the honour and
glory of Protheroe min.," I explained.  "And the idea in my mind in
bringing you chaps together for your mutual advantage was, firstly, that
you should let Protheroe have one of your prizes to take home in triumph
to his mother; and, secondly, that he should give you a document
swearing to let you have two pounds of his five pounds at the beginning
of next term."

Mayne was much interested at this suggestion, and, knowing that he must
be a snip for at least two prizes, if not three, at the end of the
summer term, he had no difficulty whatever in falling in with my scheme.

We were allowed to walk in the playing-fields on Sunday after chapel
before dinner, and then Mayne and Protheroe minimus and myself discussed
the details.

Funnily enough, they were so full of it between themselves that they did
not exactly realize where I came in; so I had to remind Protheroe that
it was I who had arranged the supply when I heard about his demand; and
I had also to remind him he had certainly said that if anybody could put
him in the way of a prize, he would give that person a clear pound at
the beginning of next term.

I also had to remind Mayne that he had promised me ten shillings on
delivery of his two pounds.

In fact, before the day was done I got them both to sign documents;
because, as I say, when they once got together over it, they seemed
rather to forget me.  So I explained to them that my part was simply
that of a financier, and that many men made their whole living in that
way, arranging supplies for demands and bringing capitalists together in
a friendly spirit.  But not for nothing.

They quite saw it, but thought I asked too much. However, I was older
than they were, and speedily convinced them that I had not.

There was only one difficulty in the way after this, and Protheroe came
to me about it, and I helped him over it free of charge.  He said:

"When I take home the prize, what shall I say it’s for?  You know what
my school reports are like.  There’s never a loophole for a prize of any
kind."

"You might say good conduct," I suggested; but Protheroe min. scorned
the thought.

"That would give away the whole show at once," he said.  "Because even
my mother wouldn’t be deceived.  It’s no good taking back a prize for
good conduct when the report will be sure to read as usual--’No attempt
at any improvement,’ which is how it always goes."

Everything I suggested, Protheroe scoffed at in the same way, so I could
see the prize would have to be for something not mentioned at all in the
school report.

Of course, you don’t get book prizes for cricket, or footer, or running,
which--especially the latter--were the only things that Protheroe min.
could have hoped honestly to get a prize for.  But I stuck to the
problem, and had a very happy idea three nights before the end of the
term.  I then advised Protheroe to say the prize was for "calisthenics."

There are no prizes for calisthenics at Merivale; but it sounded rather
a likely subject, especially as he was a dab at it.  And, anyway, he
thought it would satisfy his mother and be all right.

So that was settled, and it only remained for Mayne to get his lawful
prizes and hand over the least important to Protheroe min.

It all went exceedingly well--at the start--and young Mayne got the
prizes and gave Protheroe the second, which was for literature.

The thing was composed entirely of poems--Longfellow, or Southey, or
some such blighter--and Protheroe said that his mother would fairly
revel to think that he had won it.  He packed it in his box after
"breaking up," and we exchanged our agreements; and it came out, when
all was over, that young Mayne was to have two pounds out of Protheroe’s
five, and I was to have ten bob from Mayne and a pound from
Protheroe--thirty shillings in all; and Protheroe would have the prize
and two pounds, not to mention other pickings, which would doubtless be
given to him by his proud and grateful mother.

You might have thought that nothing could go wrong with a sound
financial scheme of that sort. I put any amount of time and thought into
the transaction, and as it was my first introduction into the world of
business, so to speak, and I stood to net a clear thirty shillings,
naturally I left no stone unturned, as they say, to make it a brilliant
and successful affair.

And yet it all went to utter and hopeless smash, though it was no fault
of mine.

And you certainly couldn’t blame Protheroe min. or Mayne either.  In
fact, Protheroe must have carried it off very well when he got home, and
the calisthenics went down all right; and Mayne, when his people asked
how it was that he hadn’t got more than one prize, was ingenious enough
to say that he’d suffered from hay fever all the term and been too off
colour to make his usual haul.

So everything would have been perfection but for the idiotic and
footling behaviour of Protheroe min.’s mother.

This excitable and weak-minded woman was not content with just quietly
taking the prize and putting it in a glass case with the prizes won in
the past by Protheroe’s brothers.  She must go fluttering about telling
his wretched relations what he’d done; and, as if that was not enough,
she got altogether above herself and wrote to Dr. Dunston about it.  She
said how glad and happy it had made her, and that success in the
gymnasium was something to begin with, and that she hoped and prayed
that it would lead to better things, and that they would live to be
proud of Protheroe minimus yet, and such-like truck!

Well, the result was a knock-down blow to us all, as you may imagine,
and the Doctor showed himself both wily and beastly, as usual.  For he
merely asked Protheroe’s mother to send back the prize at the beginning
of the term, as he fancied there might have been some mistake; but he
begged her not to mention the matter to Protheroe minimus.

So when Protheroe and Mayne and myself all arrived again for the arduous
toil of the winter term, and Mayne and I were eager for the financial
disimbursements to begin, we heard the shattering news that, at the last
moment, Protheroe hadn’t got his fiver.

It was to have been given to him on the day that he came back to school;
but instead his mother had merely told him that she feared there was a
little mistake somewhere, and that she couldn’t give him his hard-earned
cash till Dr. Dunston had cleared the matter up.

Needless to say that Dunston did clear it up with all the brutality of
which he was capable.

As for myself, when the crash came, I hoped it would happen to me as it
often does to professional financiers in real life, and that I should
escape, as it were.  Not, of course, that I had done anything that in
fairness made it necessary for me to escape, because to take advantage
of supply and demand is a natural law of self-preservation, and
everybody does it as a matter of course, not only financiers.

But, much to my annoyance, the common-sense view of the thing was not
taken, and I found myself "in the cart," as they say, with young Mayne
and Protheroe minimus.

The Doctor, on examining Protheroe’s prize for calisthenics, instantly
perceived that it was in reality young Mayne’s prize for literature.
But evidently anything like strategy of this kind was very distasteful
to the Doctor.  In fact, he took a prejudiced view from the first, and
as young Mayne was only eleven and Protheroe min. merely ten and a half,
it instantly jumped to Dunston’s hateful and suspicious mind that
somebody must have helped them in what he called a "nefarious project."
And, by dint of some very unmanly cross-questioning, he got my name out
of Mayne.

I never blamed Mayne; in fact, I quite believed him when he swore that
it only slipped out under the treacherous questions of the Doctor; but
the result was, of course, unsatisfactory in every way for me.

I was immediately sent for, and had no course open to me but to explain
the whole nature of financial operations to Dr. Dunston, and try to make
him see that I had simply fallen in with the iron laws of supply and
demand.

Needless to say, I failed, for he was in one of his fiery and snorting
conditions and above all appeal to reason.

"It was an ordinary sort of transaction, sir," I said, "and I don’t see
that anybody was hurt by it.  In fact, everybody was pleased, including
Mrs. Protheroe."

This made him simply foam at the mouth.

I had never been what you may call a great success with him, and now to
hear sound business views from one still at the early age of sixteen,
fairly shook him up.

He ordered me to go back to my class, and when I had gone, he flogged
young Mayne and Protheroe minimus.  He then forgave them and told them
to go and sin no more; and the same day, doubtless after the old fool
had cooled down a bit, he wrote to my father and put the case before
him--though not quite fairly--and said that, apparently, I had no moral
sense, and a lot of other insulting and vulgar things.  In conclusion,
he asked my father to remove me, that I might find another sphere for my
activities.

And my father did.

He never took my view of the matter exactly; but he certainly did not
take Dr. Dunston’s view either.  He seemed to be more amused than
anything, and was by no means in such a wax with Dr. Dunston as I should
have expected.

He said that the scholastic point of view was rather stuffy and lacked
humour; and then he explained that I had certainly not acted quite on
the straight, but had been a "deceitful and cunning little bounder."

I was a good deal hurt at this view, and when he found a billet for me
in the firm of Messrs. Martin & Moss, Stock Brokers, I felt very glad
indeed to go into it and shake off the dust of school from my feet, as
they say.

It is a good and a busy firm, and I have been here a fortnight now.  Ten
days ago, happening to pass Mr. Martin’s door, and catching my name, I
naturally stood and listened and heard an old clerk tell Mr. Martin that
I was taking to the work like a duck takes to water.

I am writing this account of the business at Merivale on sheets of the
best correspondence paper of Messrs. Martin & Moss!

They would not like it if they knew.

But they won’t know.

                                THE END

                Printed in the United States of America.

           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

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                              Old Delabole

                           BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

                    Author of "Brunei’s Tower," etc.

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

A critic in reviewing _Brunei’s Tower_ remarked that it would seem that
Eden Phillpotts was now doing the best work of his career.  There was
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"Another good story from an able hand."--_New York Sun_.

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                             Brunei’s Tower

                           BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

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The regeneration of a faulty character through association with
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                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                            Faith Tresilion

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"Its movement is brisk, and the development of its plot is emphasized at
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                           The Three Brothers

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                           Knock at a Venture

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Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous
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                             The Portreeve

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