The Loom of Youth

by Alec Waugh

  “Now, let me see,” he began, “who’s the senior man here?”

  Immediately everyone except Benson stood up. “I am, sir.”

  “But you can’t all be the senior.”

  “Yes, sir; we are,” was the unanimous answer.

  “You see, sir,” Gordon explained, “I am the cleverest and should be the senior, but Mansell there, that dolt with the tie-pin, has been longer in the school, and he’s got his Seconds, and rather fancies himself. Dyke has taken longer to reach IV. A than anyone else in the school’s history, and thinks that a sufficient claim to be senior. Lovelace, oh, well, he’s—well, I don’t know what he is. Lovelace, you swine, what are you?”

  “Confound you, man!” shouted the enraged three-quarter. “Who the hell—”

  “Lovelace,” broke in Trundle, “I think you may keep your reflections on the future life till afterwards. We will sit in alphabetical order.”

  It is incredible how long it takes for ten boys to change their places. It was a long process. Books fell to the right and to the left. There were murmurs of “Damn you, man, that’s my grammar!” or “Confound you, Benson!” “Where the hell is my dictionary?” Twice Benson had been sent flying into the waste-paper basket; three times had Dyke driven a compass into the backside of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To crown everything, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight. Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under Trundle’s desk; Gordon endeavoured to get through a window that was hardly a foot square. Macdonald’s class-room was just the other side of the V. A green; he chuckled to himself. “I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I think we shall have to put him on to construe when he returns. If he goes to music-hall shows in school time he must pay for it, you know.”

  There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder rang the noise of the French students. A question had arisen as to what book they should read that term. Everyone was shouting the name of his favourite author. “Let’s do The Little Thing” yelled Dyke. “No; de Maupassant,” shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: “I saw one of his books in a shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot stuff.” Then louder again: “Let’s have de Maupassant.” “No; The Black Tulip” Lovelace implored, and went on in a stage whisper: “Now don’t be silly fools, I have got a crib of this. Have some sense.” “You don’t imagine we’re going to prepare the stuff, do you?” was Hunter’s retort. Above the uproar Forbes’ voice drawled: “I say, if there’s a French translation of Five Nights, let’s read that. I know the book pretty well by heart.”

  It was ultimately decided to read six contes by Francois Coppee; but by the time the decision had been reached, the hour had been exhausted. Rather sadly Trundle watched the set pour out into the cloister, shouting and laughing. Even masters have souls. Boys don’t realise this.

  Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. Sometimes Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was singing: Meet me under the Roses, while Gordon was giving a lively if inaccurate translation.

  “Fletcher, stop that singing!”

  “Mayn’t I sing, sir?”

  “Of course not. This is a class-room.”

  “Is it, sir? I thought it was a place of amusement.”

  “Fifty lines, Fletcher.”

  “But, sir, it is, you know—”

  “One hundred lines, Fletcher.”

  “Really, sir—”

  “One hundred and fifty lines, Fletcher.”

  Fletcher collapsed. Next morning a magnificent blue envelope, sealed at every corner, arrived at Mr Trundle’s house. It contained a vast quantity of blank paper.

  “But, sir, I really thought I put in the lines. Hunter, you swine, that is your fault. Sir, I believe Hunter stole them. He had a big imposition for the Chief. You dirty dog, Hunter. May I kick him, sir?”

  “No; sit down, Fletcher.”

  The lines were never done.

  One day Collins was put on to construe. Of course he had made no attempt to prepare it. This was at once evident.

  “Collins, have you prepared this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But why not?”

  Collins had seen Charley’s Aunt in the holidays. “Ah, why?” was his laconic answer.

  Trundle foamed with wrath. He snatched a cane from under his desk and advanced on Collins. The prospective victim leapt back and pointed at him with theatrical calm: “Look, he is coming at me with cane in hand. Ha! he comes! he comes! see how he comes.”

  Trundle launched a fierce blow at Collins, and only narrowly missed Benson’s eyes. Collins delivered a short lecture on the danger of losing one’s temper. Trundle returned to his desk.

  As the term went on the ragging became more elaborate. At first the set was content with giving a sort of low comedian, knockabout performance. But they soon wearied of such things. After all, they were real artistes. And Archie Fletcher could not bear being ordinary. But still there was a good deal of sport to be got out of quite common place manoeuvres. The introduction of electric snuff, for instance, may not be very original; but it was remarkably successful.

  Trundle had a habit of leaving his mark-book in his desk, and Lovelace had a key that fitted it. The rest was simple. During evening hall Hunter and Lovelace got leave to fetch a book from their class-room. There was no one about. In five minutes Trundle’s mark-book was filled with snuff. Next morning the set assembled. Forbes was asleep, Benson was furtively looking up a word in his dictionary, the School House contingent was uncommonly quiet.

  “Well,” said Trundle, “who shall we start off with this morning? Let me see, ah!” he opened his mark-book.

  The roar of laughter was heard the other side of the court. For a full three minutes Trundle was utterly, gorgeously prostrate with coughing and sneezing.

  Mansell was very sympathetic.

  “Have you a cold, sir? I hope it’s nothing serious, sir. I find the east wind a little trying myself. Do you ever use Fletcher’s cough lozenges? Very efficacious, sir,” he babbled on.

  At last Trundle recovered his wind if not his temper. He glowered at the form.

  “Fletcher, translate, please.”

  Fletcher began. But he did not get very far. Hunter let loose another wave of snuff. The whole form was now coughing and sneezing certainly considerably more than was necessary.

  “Next boy who sneezes I shall give a hundred lines to, and report him to the Headmaster.”

  Temporary peace ensued. It is not pleasant to be sent up to the Chief; and weak masters have not the slightest scruple in doing so. The strong men need not report. But a man like Archie could not be kept in order long. He gave vent to a most unpleasant snort.

  “Fletcher, if you do that again I shall have to beat you.”

  A slight pause.

  “Please, sir, may I blow my nose if I mayn’t sniff?”

  “Yes, Fletcher; don’t be stupid.”

  Immediately there rose a chorus of “Mayn’t we blow our noses, too, sir? Why should Fletcher be the only one allowed to. It isn’t fair.”

  Trundle gave way, and the rest of the hour was spent entirely in coughing, shouting and sneezing. No work was done. But that was no unusual occurrence in the extra French set.

  This was, of course, the sort of amusement that could be only indulged in once. It would grow stale a second time. But Briault’s idea of fancy dress was one that presented infinite opportunities and gave full scope for originality. At first nothing very startling occurred. On a freezing cold day the whole set would assemble without waistcoats and with their coats wide open would complain bitterly of the heat; on a warm day they would go in arrayed as for an Antarctic expedition in wonderful scarves and huge gloves.

  “It’s disgraceful, sir, how cold this room is,” Gordon complained. “I am very sensitive to cold, and there are two windows open. They must be shut.”

  “Well, Caruthers, if you find this room too cold,” replied Trundle sarcastically, “you may return to the warm
th of your own study and write me out the lesson ten times. Do you prefer that?”

  Trundle thought that rather smart, but Gordon was never beaten.

  “Sir, I do prefer an unfairly long imposition to an attack of pneumonia,” and with that he sailed out of the room; the “impot” was, of course, never done. Only Benson did things for Trundle.

  From this day on to discover a new kind of dress was the aim of Archie’s life. What he advised the form always copied. One day the Chief gave out an order that, owing to the extreme cold, woollen waistcoats would be allowed, provided they were of a quiet colour. That night Archie searched the studies. For sixpence he purchased from a new boy a threadbare carpet that had not been brushed or cleaned for generations. This he cut up into six parts, and each School House member of the set somehow or other made for himself a waistcoat out of them. Next day, garbed in these, they rolled sedately to Trundle’s, their coats flung open, their hands in their trouser pockets.

  Trundle sat speechless. At last he found words.

  “What is the meaning of this confounded impertinence? Collins, Mansell, Caruthers, Hunter, Lovelace, and you Fletcher, take off that filthy stuff.”

  “That stuff, sir,” drawled out Forbes. “What stuff?”

  “Don’t interfere, Forbes,” rapped out Trundle. “Take them off, I say.”

  “Oh, do you mean our waistcoats, sir?” asked Hunter, in superbly feigned surprise. “We couldn’t take them off; we should catch a cold. The Headmaster has just given out a notice about them. He said we could wear them.”

  “He never gave you permission to garb yourselves in the refuse of the neighbourhood.”

  “Refuse?” said Forbes. “Those waistcoats are of a most fashionable cut. It’s extremely hard to get that particular brand of cloth; my brother, who is a member of the Bullingdon, told me—”

  “I don’t want to know anything about your brother, Forbes. Take off those things. The Headmaster would never allow them.”

  “But, sir,” insisted Archie. “He only said that they must be of a quiet colour, and they are of a quiet colour, aren’t they, sir?”

  In truth they were. There was not a trace of colour visible anywhere. Trundle gave in. He murmured something about asking the Headmaster, and then put on Archie to con. He never asked the Chief; and there was no need for him to do so. It is not pleasant wearing dust-laden carpets for an hour. Such jests can only be undertaken at rare intervals.

  But the culminating point was not reached till the last Thursday of the term. It was boat-race day, and the set unanimously backed Oxford. At ten o’clock the set was due to appear. But when Trundle arrived all he found was Benson, who was in nervous apprehension lest he should have come to the wrong room. If he had, he might lose some marks; and marks were more to him than many boundaries. He smiled happily at Trundle.

  “Ah, where are the rest, Benson?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose we must wait, but it is a great nuisance. I wanted to finish the book today, it’s our last lesson, you know.”

  The next day was Good Friday.

  For ten minutes they sat in silence. It takes a long time to prepare a big rag; the curtain very seldom goes up punctually on the first night; and there had been no dress rehearsal. There was a sound of scuffling from the door in the cloister which led into the School House studies. Then came the tread of measured feet. The door opened, and the great procession entered.

  At the head was Gordon in Ferguson’s dressing-gown (a great white confection with pale pink frogs) with a white Colts’ cap on his head; he beat time with a small swagger cane. Then came the trumpeters, Crosbie and Forbes, who were producing strange harmonies on two pipes that they had bagged from the armoury. Behind them Mansell walked in corps clothes and a Second Fifteen cap. He was chanting a low dirge. On each side of him marched the choristers, Lovelace and Hunter, in white sheets and enormous psalters that they had borrowed from the chapel. They also sang in a strange outlandish tongue. But the piece de resistance was the banner. It consisted of a long piece of white calico on which was inscribed in red ink: “Up, Up, Oxford. Down with the Cantabs.” (Trundle hailed from Emmanuel.) It was fastened at each end to a hockey stick, and Fletcher and Collins bore it in solemnly. In the rear, Briault gave his impressions of a cow being ill. Dyke was the showman.

  “I will now present, gentlemen,” he began, “my circus of touring artistes, who are raising a fund for the endowment of the Oxford boating club. I must beg you all—”

  But Trundle cut short the oration. Seizing a cane, he rushed into the cavalcade of Isis, and smote out full lustily. Pandemonium broke forth. No battle-field was more rich in groans; no revue chorus produced so much noise. It took a quarter of an hour to obtain quiet. But at last a motley crowd sat down to study Francois Coppee.

  And then came the denouement. It was entirely unexpected and entirely unrehearsed. There was a knock outside. The door opened and an amazing apparition appeared on the threshold. Betteridge was in the Sixth. Very enviously the night before he had listened to the preparations and plans of the extra French set; cursing inwardly, he had sat down at ten o’clock to do prose with the Chief. Faintly across the court were borne the sounds of strife. He groaned within him. Suddenly the Chief stood up.

  “I find I shall have to leave you for a little. Some parents are coming to interview me. I want you all to return quietly to your studies, and continue the prose there.”

  Joyfully the Sixth trooped out. Betteridge rushed across the courts to Trundle’s class-room. For a second he listened outside, then a great idea struck him. There was still half-an-hour left. Madly he tore up to the dormitories. Luckily they were not locked. Five minutes later he appeared before Mr Henry Trundle entirely changed. He had on a very light brown suit, a pair of check spats, a rainbow-coloured waistcoat, a heliotrope bow tie; a bowler was balanced on his head at an angle of forty-five degrees, a camera was slung round his neck, in his hand he had a notebook and pencil.

  “Mr Trundle, I believe,” he said. “I am the reporter of The Fernhurst Gazette. We have received a wire that there has been a great pro-Oxford demonstration in here, and we want to get an account of it in the stop press news before our sister journal, The Western Evening Transcript. Can you give me some notes?”

  As he stopped, the set, that had remained spellbound, burst into a hilarious shriek of joy. Everyone heard it; even Claremont woke up and asked what it was. Arthur, the school custos, talks of it to this day.

  And at this point the Chief comes into the story. He was showing the parents in question round the studies when he heard an uproar proceeding from somewhere near the cloisters. He excused himself from the parents, ran downstairs, and tracked the noise to Trundle’s class-room. He entered. Never before had he seen disorder on such a generous scale. He looked round.

  “Mr Trundle—er—what er—set is this?”

  “The extra French set, Headmaster.”

  The Chief half smiled. He walked out without another word.

  Next term there was no extra French set.

  The ragging of Trundle, however, was merely regarded relaxation from the serious business of life. In an Easter term football is the only thing that any respectable man will really worry about. And Gordon, judged on these grounds, and his friends with him, would most certainly pass into the most select society circle. The Thirds this year was a terribly perplexing problem. Simonds had not taken enough trouble with his juniors the term before. This term he was working hard enough, but it was a bit late in the day to begin. On the first Saturday of the term a scratch side took sixty-five points off the prospective Thirds side.

  “If you play as badly as that on the day you’ll lose by forty points,” growled Simonds, “and you’ll damned well deserve a beating, too.”

  “Curse the man,” muttered Lovelace. “Whose bloody fault is it but his, I should like to know? He is a disgrace to the House, working for some rotten scholarship when he ought to be t
raining on our juniors. Rotten swine.”

  “Well, he’s pretty well all right this term, at any rate,” said Gordon. “For the Lord’s sake don’t go grousing about; or we sha’n’t keep the score under eighty, let alone ninety. If we lose, we lose; and, my God, we’ll make ’em play for it.”

  The side certainly tried hard, and Simonds did his best, but all the same, on the day of the match, Buller’s were backing their chances of running up a score of over thirty points at three to one.

  “The swine!” said Gordon. “Swanking it about how they are going to lick us to bits. My word, I would give something to smash them to smithereens. I have taken on a bet with every man in Buller’s whom I found offering long odds. I stand to win quite a lot. And I shall win it.”

  “God’s truth,” said Mansell, “do they think there’s no guts left in the House at all? They may go gassing about the number of Colts’ badges they have got, but they are not used to our way of playing. We go for the ball, and if a man’s in the light we knock him out of it. School House footer is not pretty to look at; but it’s the real thing, not a sort of nursery affair. We go in to win.”

  Just before lunch a typical telegram from Meredith was pinned up on the House board:

  “Go it House. And give them—”

  The blank was left to the imagination. The House remembered Meredith and filled it in accordingly.

  Nothing is more horrible than the morning before a first House match. Gordon woke happy and expectant, but by break he had begun to feel a little shivery, and at lunch-time he was done to the world. He ate nothing, answered questions in vague monosyllables, and smiled half nervously at everyone in general. He was suffering from the worst kind of stage fright. And after all, to play in an important match before the whole school is a fairly terrifying experience. As he sat trembling in the pavilion, waiting for the whisde to blow, Gordon would have welcomed any form of death, anything to save him from the ordeal before him. The whistle blew at last. As he walked out from the pavilion in his magenta-and-black jersey, an unspeakable terror gripped him; his knees became very weak; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and then something seemed to snap in his brain. He walked on quite cheerfully. He was as a spectator. It seemed that it was not really he, but his ghost that was walking on to the field. Subconsciously he lined up with the rest. The School side in their white jerseys, the Colts with their red dragons, seemed miles away. Collins kicked off. Gordon did not know he was playing. A roar of “House” rose from the touch-line. Involuntarily he joined it, thinking himself a looker-on, then suddenly Livingstone, the Buller’s inside three-quarter, caught the ball and ran towards him. At once Gordon was himself. He forgot the crowd on the touch-line, forgot his nervousness, forgot everything except that he was playing for the House, and somehow or other had to drive the ball over that line. He crashed into Livingstone, and the pair rolled into touch. A cheer rippled down the line. Gordon did not hear it.