Happy-go-lucky

by Ian Hay

  II

  That shrinking but helpless puppet, the Junior Egyptologist to theFitzwilliam Museum, duly presented himself at Mr. Wickham's atseven-thirty that evening, surmounted by the fez.

  Here I was introduced to the guest of the evening, Mr. Jebson. He was apasty-faced, pig-eyed youth of about four-and-twenty, in anextravagantly cut dress suit with a velvet collar. He wore a diamondring and a soft shirt. He looked like an unsuccessful compromisebetween a billiard-marker and a casino croupier at a Frenchwatering-place. His right forefinger was firmly embedded in thebuttonhole of a shaggy monster in a kilt, whom, from the fact that hespoke a language which I recognised as that of Mr. Harry Lauder, I tookto be the heir of the Duke of Damsillie.

  The Freak was certainly playing his part as though he enjoyed it, butthe other celebrities, who stood conversing in a sheepish undertone invarious corners, looked too like stage conspirators to be entirelyconvincing. However, Mr. Jebson appeared to harbour no suspicion as tothe _bona fides_ of the company in which he found himself, which was themain point.

  I was now introduced to the President of the Cambridge University BoatClub, a magnificent personage in a made-up bow tie of light-blue satin;to the Sultan of Cholerabad, a coffee-coloured potentate in sweepingOriental robes, in whom the dignity that doth hedge a king was lessconspicuous than a thoroughly British giggle; and to the Senior Wranglerof the previous year, who wore a turn-down collar, trousers thebagginess of which a music-hall comedian would have envied, and bluespectacles.

  Mesmerised by Mr. Wickham's cold eye and correct deportment, we greetedone another with stately courtesy: but the President of the Boat Clubwinked at me cheerfully; the Sultan of Cholerabad, scrutinising my fez,enquired in broken English the exact date of my escape from thecigarette factory; and the Senior Wrangler invited my opinion, _sottovoce_, upon the cut of his trousers.

  In a distant corner of the room, which was very dimly lighted,--probablyfor purposes of theatrical effect,--I descried two more guests--uncannyfigures both. One was a youth in semi-clerical attire, with shorttrousers and white cotton socks, diligently exercising what is bestdescribed as a Private Secretary voice upon his companion, ascarlet-faced gentleman in an exaggerated hunting-kit--horn and all.The latter I identified (rightly) as The Master of the UniversityBloodhounds, but I was at a loss to assign a character to The PrivateSecretary. I learned during the evening, from his own lips, that he wasthe Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology.

  The party was completed by the arrival of a stout young gentleman with astrong German accent and fluffy hair. He was presented to us as TheBaron Guldenschwein. (He actually was a Baron, as it turned out, butnot a German. However, he possessed a strong sense of humour--a morepriceless possession than sixty-four quarterings or a castle on theRhine.)

  Dinner was announced, and we took our places. Wickham sat at the head ofthe table, with Mr. Jebson on his right and the Marquis of Puddox on hisleft. I took the foot, supported on either hand by the President of theBoat Club and the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology. The otherfour disposed themselves in the intervening places, the Sultan takinghis seat upon Jebson's right, with the Baron opposite.

  The dinner was served in the immaculate fashion customary atundergraduate feasts and other functions where long-suffering parentsloom in the background with cheque-books. The table decorations hadobviously been selected upon the principle that what is most expensivemust be best, and each guest was confronted with a much beribboned menuwith his title printed upon it. Champagne, at the covert but urgentrepresentation of the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology, wasserved with the _hors d'oeuvres_.

  At first we hardly lived up to our costumes. A practical joke whichbegins upon an empty stomach does not usually speed from the mark.Fortunately The Freak, who was not as other men are in these matters,had entered upon his night's work at the very top of his form, and hegave us all an invaluable lead. The fish found him standing with onefoot upon the table, pledging Mr. Jebson in language which may have beenGaelic, but more nearly resembled the baying of one of the Universitybloodhounds. This gave us courage, and presently the AssistantTheologian and the M.B.H. abandoned a furtive interchange of Rugbyfootball "shop" and entered into a heated discussion with the SeniorWrangler upon certain drastic alterations which, apparently, themathematical savants of the day contemplated making in themultiplication table.

  I devoted my attention chiefly to observing the masterly fashion inwhich The Freak and the saturnine Mr. Wickham handled Jebson. Thelatter was without doubt a most unpleasant creature. The undergraduatetolerates and, too often, admires the vicious individual who is reputedto be a devil of a fellow. Still, that individual usually has someredeeming qualities. In the ordinary way of business he probably pullsan oar and shoves in the scrimmage as heartily as his neighbour: hisrecourses to riotous living are in the nature of reaction from thesestrenuous pursuits. They arise less from a desire to pose as a man ofthe world than from sheer weakness of the flesh. He is not in the leastproud of them: indeed, like the rest of us, he is usually very repentantafterwards. And above all, he observes a decent reticence about hisfollies. He regards them as liabilities, not assets; and therein liesthe difference between him and creatures of the Jebson type. Jebsontook no part in clean open-air enthusiasms: he had few moments ofreckless self-abandonment: to him the serious business of life was themethodical establishment of a reputation as a _viveur_. He sought toexcite the admiration of his fellows by the recital of his exploits inwhat he called "the world." Such, naturally, were conspicuous neitherfor reticence nor truth. He was a pitiful transparent fraud, and I feltrather surprised, as I considered the elaborate nature of the presentscheme for his discomfiture, that the tolerant easy-going crew who satround the table should have thought the game worth the candle. I beganto feel rather sorry for Jebson. After all, he was not the only noxiousinsect in the University. Then I remembered the story of the girl'sphotograph, and I understood. It was an ill day for The Jebber, Ireflected, when he spoke lightly of his lady-love in the presence ofDicky Mainwaring.

  The banquet ran its course. Presently dessert was placed upon the tableand the waiters withdrew. The Sultan of Cholerabad, I noticed, hadmastered the diffidence which had characterised his behaviour during theearlier stages of the proceedings, and was now joining freely in theconversation at the head of the table. I overheard Mr. Jebson extendingto him a cordial invitation to come up with him to town at the end ofthe term and be introduced to a galaxy of music-hall stars, jockeys, andbookmakers--an invitation which had already been deferentially acceptedby Mr. Wickham and the Marquis of Puddox. In return, the Sultanannounced that the harem at Cholerabad was open to inspection by selectparties of visitors on Tuesdays and Thursdays, on presentation ofvisiting-card.

  The spirits of the party in general were now rising rapidly, and morethan once the tranquillity of the proceedings was seriously imperilled.After the Baron Guldenschwein had been frustrated in an attempt torecite an ode in praise of the Master of the Bloodhounds (on thesomewhat inadequate grounds that "I myself wear always bogskin boods"),our nominal host found himself compelled to cope with the AssistantProfessor of Comparative Theology, who, rising unsteadily to his legs,proclaimed his intention of giving imitations of a few celebratedactors, beginning with Sir Henry Irving. The Theologian was in acondition which rendered censure and argument equally futile. He hadconsumed perhaps half a bottle of champagne and two glasses of port, soit was obvious that his present exalted condition was due not so much tothe depths of his potations as to the shallowness of his accommodationfor the same. I for one, having drunk at least as much as he andfeeling painfully decorous, forbore to judge him. The rest of thecompany were sober enough, but leniently disposed, and our theologicalfriend was allowed his way. He threw himself into a convulsiveattitude, mouthed out an entirely unintelligible limerick about a youngman from Patagonia, and sat down abruptly, well pleased with hisperformance
.

  Then came an ominous silence. The time for business was at hand. Mr.Jebson, still impervious to atmospheric influence, selected this momentfor weaving his own shroud. He rose to his feet and made a speech. Headdressed us as "fellow-sports"; he referred to Mr. Wickham as "ourworthy Chair," and to myself as "our young friend Mr. Vice." Thecompany as a whole he designated "hot stuff." After expressing, withevident sincerity, the pleasure with which he found himself in hispresent company, he revealed to us the true purport of his uprising,which was to propose the toast of "The Girls." Under the circumstancesa more unfortunate selection of subject could not have been made. Thespeaker had barely concluded his opening sentence when the Marquis ofPuddox, speaking in his natural tone of voice, rose to his feet andbrought what promised to be a rather nauseous eulogy to a summaryconclusion.

  "Dry up," he rapped out, "and sit down at once. Clear the table, youfellows, and get the tablecloth off."

  Without further ado the distinguished company present, with theexception of the Theologian, who had retired into a corner by himself torehearse an imitation, obeyed Dicky's behest. The decanters and glasseswere removed to the sideboard, and the cloth was whipped off.

  "Take this loathsome sweep," continued the Marquis in the samedispassionate voice, indicating the guest of the evening, now as whiteas his own shirt-front, "and tie him up with table-napkins."

  The dazed Jebson offered no resistance. Presently he found himselflying flat on his back upon the table, his arms and legs pinioned by Mr.Wickham's table-linen.

  "Roll him up in the tablecloth," was The Freak's next order, "and sethim on a chair."

  This time Jebson found his tongue.

  "Gentlemen all," he gasped between revolutions--the Master of theBloodhounds and Baron Guldenschwein were swiftly converting him into asnowy cocoon--"a joke's all very well in its way between pals; but--"

  "Put him on that chair," continued Dicky, taking not the slightestnotice.

  Willing hands dumped the mummified and inanimate form of Jebson into anarmchair, and the unique collection of Sports sat round him in a ring.

  Then suddenly Dicky laughed.

  "That's all, Jebson," he said. "We are n't going to do anything elsewith you. You are not worth it."

  Mr. Jebson, who had been expecting the Death by a Thousand Cuts at thevery least, merely gaped like a stranded carp. He was utterlydemoralised. To a coward, fear of pain is worse than pain itself.

  Dicky continued:--

  "We merely want to inform you that we think you are not suited toUniversity life. The great world without is calling you. You arewasted here: in fact, you have been a bit of a failure. You mean well,but you are lacking in perception. There is too much Ego in yourCosmos. Napoleon, you will remember, suffered from the same infirmity.For nearly two terms you have deluded yourself into the belief that wethink you a devil of a fellow. We have sat and listened politely toyour reminiscences: we have permitted you to refer to all the Strandloafers that one has ever heard of by their pet names. And all the timeyou have entirely failed to realise that we see through you. For awhile you rather amused us, but now we are fed up with you. You aregetting the College a bad name, too. We are not a very big College, butwe are a very old and very proud one, and we have always kept our end upagainst larger and less particular establishments. So I'm afraid we mustpart with you. You are too high for us. That is all, I think. Wouldany one else like to say anything?"

  "Are n't we going to toy with him a little?" asked the Senior Wrangler."We might bastinado him, or shave one side of his head."

  But Dicky would have none of it.

  "Too childish," he said. "We will just leave him as he is, and finishour evening. Then he can go home and pack his carpet-bag. But"--TheFreak turned suddenly and savagely upon the gently perspiringJebson--"let me give you one hint, my lad. Never again mention ladies'names before a roomful of men, or, by God, you'll get a lesson from someone some day that you will remember to the end of your life! That isall. I have finished. The Committee for Dealing with Public Nuisancesis dissolved. Let us--"

  "I will now," suddenly remarked a confidential but slightly vinous voicefrom the other end of the room, "have great pleasure in giving you animitation of Mr. Beerbohm Tree."

  And the Assistant Professor of Comparative Theology, who had beenneglecting the role of avenging angel in order to prime himself at thesideboard for another excursion into the realms of mimetic art, struckexactly the same attitude as before, and began to mouth out, withprecisely similar intonation and gesture, the limerick which had alreadydone duty in the case of Sir Henry Irving.

  After this the proceedings degenerated rapidly into a "rag" of the mostordinary and healthy type. The company, having dined, had ceased tofeel vindictive, and The Freak's admirably appropriate handling of thesituation met with their entire appreciation. With relief theyproceeded from labour to recreation. Mr. Jebson was unceremoniouslybundled into a corner; some one opened Mr. Wickham's piano, and in twominutes an impromptu dance was in full swing. I first found myselfinvolved in an extravagant perversion of the Lancers, danced by theentire strength of the company with the exception of BaronGuldenschwein, who presided at the piano. After this the Theologian,amid prolonged cries of dissent, gave another imitation--I think it wasof Sarah Bernhardt--which was terminated by a happy suggestion ofDicky's that the entertainer should be "forcibly fed"--an overripebanana being employed as the medium of nourishment. Then the Baronstruck up "The Eton Boating Song." Next moment I found myself (understrict injunctions to remember that I was "lady") waltzing madly roundin the embrace of the Senior Wrangler, dimly wondering whether the roleof battering-ram which I found thrust upon me during the next tenminutes was an inevitable one for all female partners, and if so, whygirls ever went to balls.

  Presently my partner suggested a rest, and having propped me withexaggerated gallantry against the window-ledge, took off his dickey andfanned me with it.

  After that we played "Nuts in May."

  The fun grew more uproarious. Each man was enjoying himself with thatpriceless _abandon_ which only youth can confer, little recking thatwith the passing of a very few years he would look back from theworld-weary heights of, say, twenty-five, upon such a memory as thiswith pained and incredulous amazement. Later still, say at forty, hewould look back again, and the retrospect would warm his heart. For thepresent, however, our warmth was of a purely material nature, and theonly Master of Arts present mopped his streaming brow and felt glad thathe was alive. To a man who has worked without a holiday for three yearseither in a drawing-office or an engineering-shop in South London, anundergraduate riot of the most primitive description is not without itspoints.

  "The Eton Boating Song" is an infectious measure: in a short time wewere all singing as well as dancing. The floor trembled: the chandelierrattled: the windows shook: Jesus Lane quaked.

  "Swing, swing, together,"

  we roared,

  "With your bodies between your--"

  _Crash!_

  The flowing tartan plaid which adorned the shoulders of the scion of thehouse of Damsillie had spread itself abroad, and, encircling in aclinging embrace the trussed and pinioned form of the much-enduringJebson, had whipped him from his stool of penance and caused him, fromno volition of his own, to join the glad throng of waltzers, much as aderelict tree-trunk joins a whirlpool. In a trice the AssistantProfessor of Comparative Theology and the President of the UniversityBoat Club, who were performing an intricate reversing movement at themoment, tripped heavily backwards over his prostrate form, while theMost Noble the Marquis of Puddox (and lady), brought up in full careerby the stoutly resisting plaid, fell side by side upon the field. TheSenior Wrangler and the Junior Egyptologist, whirling like dervishes,topped the heap a moment later. The Baron Guldenschwein and the Masterof the Bloodhounds leavened the whole lump.

  My head struck the floor with a dull thud. Simultaneously some one (Ithink it was the Senior Wrangler)
put his foot into my left ear. Even atthis excruciating moment I remember reflecting that it would be adifficult matter, after this, to maintain a distant or stand-offishattitude towards the gentleman who at this moment was acting as thefoundation-stone of our pyramid.

  The music ceased, with a suddenness that suggested musical chairs, and Iwas aware of an ominous silence. Disengaging my neck from the embraceof a leg clad in a baggy silk trousering,--evidently it belonged to theSultan: how he got into that galley I have no conception, for he hadrecently relieved the Baron at the piano,--I struggled to my hands andknees and crawled out of the turmoil upon the floor.

  Set amid the constellation of stars which still danced round my ringinghead, I beheld a sleek but burly gentleman in sober black, silk hat inhand, standing in the doorway. He was a University bull-dog. We werein the clutches of the Law.

  "Proctor's compliments, gentlemen, and will the gentleman what theserooms belong to kindly step--"

  It was a familiar formula. Wickham, who had struggled to his feet,answered at once:--

  "All right; I'll come down. Wait till I put my collar on. Is theProctor downstairs?"

  "Yes, sir," said the man.

  "Who is it?"

  "Mr. Sandeman, sir."

  "Sandy? Golly!" commented Mr. Wickham, swiftly correcting the disorderof his array. Several people whistled lugubriously. Wickham turned toDicky.

  "I'll go down," he said. "You sort out those chaps on the floor."

  He disappeared with the bull-dog, leaving Dicky and myself todisintegrate the happy heap of arms and legs upon the carpet.Ultimately we uncovered our foundation-stone, black in the face, butresigned. We unrolled his winding-sheet, cut his bonds, and wereadministering first aid of a hearty but unscientific description whenthere was a cry from Dicky--

  "Ducker, you young fool, where are you going to?"

  Ducker, it appeared, was the real name of the Assistant Theologian. (Asa matter of fact, it was Duckworth.) He was already at the door.Finding his exit detected, he drew himself up with an air of ratherprecarious dignity, and replied:--

  "I am going to speak to Sandy."

  "What for?"

  "Sandy," explained Mr. Ducker rapidly, "has never seen my imitation ofGeorge Alexander as the Prisoner of Zenda. He has got to have it now!"

  Next moment the persevering pantomimist had disappeared, and we heardhim descending the stairs in a series of kangaroo-like leaps.

  "Come on, Bill," said Dicky to me. "We must follow him quick, or therewill be trouble."

  We raced downstairs into the entrance-hall. The open doorway framed thedishevelled figure of Mr. Duckworth. He was calling aloud the name ofone Sandy, beseeching him to behold George Alexander. Outside in thegloom of Jesus Lane we beheld Mr. Wickham arguing respectfully with amajestic figure in a black gown, white bands, and baleful spectacles.With a sinking heart I recognised one of the two saturnine clericalgentlemen in whose presence I had been presented for my M.A. degree onlya few hours before.

  "Sandy, old son," bellowed Mr. Duckworth perseveringly, "be a sportsmanand look at me a minute!" He was now out upon the doorstep, posturing."Flavia! Fla-a-a-via!" he yowled.

  "It's no good our pulling him back into the house," said Dicky, "orSandy will have him for certain. Let's rush him down the street, andhide somewhere."

  Next moment, with a hand upon each of the histrionic Theologian'sshoulders, we were flying down Jesus Lane. Behind us thundered the feetof one of the minions of the Reverend Hugo Sandeman. (The other hadapparently been retained to guard the door.) Mr. Duckworth, suddenlyawake to the reality of the situation and enjoying himself hugely,required no propulsion. In fact, he was soon towing us--so fast thatDicky, encumbered by his chieftain's costume, and I, who had notsprinted for three years, had much ado to hold on to him. The bull-dog,who was corpulent and more than middle-aged, presently fell behind.

  It was raining slightly and there were not many people about, for it wasclose on ten o'clock. We emerged at the double from Jesus Lane intoSidney Street, and dashed down the first available opening. It broughtus into a narrow alley--one of the innumerable "passages" with whichCambridge is honeycombed. Here we halted and listened intently.