A Prefect's Uncle, Page 3

  [3]

  THE UNCLE MAKES HIMSELF AT HOME

  'But, dash it,' said Gethryn, when he had finished gasping, 'that mustbe rot!'

  'Not a bit,' said the self-possessed youth. 'Your mater was my eldersister. You'll find it works out all right. Look here. A, the daughterof B and C, marries. No, look here. I was born when you were four.See?'

  Then the demoralized Bishop remembered. He had heard of his juvenileuncle, but the tales had made little impression upon him. Till now theyhad not crossed one another's tracks.

  'Oh, all right,' said he, 'I'll take your word for it. You seem to havebeen getting up the subject.'

  'Yes. Thought you might want to know about it. I say, how far is it toBeckford, and how do you get there?'

  Up till now Gethryn had scarcely realized that his uncle was actuallycoming to the School for good. These words brought the fact home tohim.

  'Oh, Lord,' he said, 'are you coming to Beckford?'

  The thought of having his footsteps perpetually dogged by an uncle fouryears younger than himself, and manifestly a youth with a fine taste incheek, was not pleasant.

  'Of course,' said his uncle. 'What did you think I was going to do?Camp out on the platform?'

  'What House are you in?'

  'Leicester's.'

  The worst had happened. The bitter cup was full, the iron neatlyinserted in Gethryn's soul. In his most pessimistic moments he hadnever looked forward to the coming term so gloomily as he did now. Hisuncle noted his lack of enthusiasm, and attributed it to anxiety onbehalf of himself.

  'What's up?' he asked. 'Isn't Leicester's all right? Is Leicester abeast?'

  'No. He's a perfectly decent sort of man. It's a good enough House. Atleast it will be this term. I was only thinking of something.'

  'I see. Well, how do you get to the place?'

  'Walk. It isn't far.'

  'How far?'

  'Three miles.'

  'The porter said four.'

  'It may be four. I never measured it.'

  'Well, how the dickens do you think I'm going to walk four miles withluggage? I wish you wouldn't rot.'

  And before Gethryn could quite realize that he, the head ofLeicester's, the second-best bowler in the School, and the best centrethree-quarter the School had had for four seasons, had been requestedin a peremptory manner by a youth of fourteen, a mere kid, not to rot,the offender was talking to a cabman out of the reach of retaliation.Gethryn became more convinced every minute that this was no ordinarykid.

  'This man says,' observed Farnie, returning to Gethryn, 'that he'lldrive me up to the College for seven bob. As it's a short four miles,and I've only got two boxes, it seems to me that he's doing himselffairly well. What do you think?'

  'Nobody ever gives more than four bob,' said Gethryn.

  'I told you so,' said Farnie to the cabman. 'You are a bally swindler,'he added admiringly.

  'Look 'ere,' began the cabman, in a pained voice.

  'Oh, dry up,' said Farnie. 'Want a lift, Gethryn?'

  The words were spoken not so much as from equal to equal as in a toneof airy patronage which made the Bishop's blood boil. But as heintended to instil a few words of wisdom into his uncle's mind, he didnot refuse the offer.

  The cabman, apparently accepting the situation as one of those slingsand arrows of outrageous fortune which no man can hope to escape,settled down on the box, clicked up his horse, and drove on towards theCollege.

  'What sort of a hole is Beckford?' asked Farnie, after the silence hadlasted some time.

  'I find it good enough personally,' said Gethryn. 'If you'd let us knowearlier that you were coming, we'd have had the place done up a bit foryou.'

  This, of course, was feeble, distinctly feeble. But the Bishop was notfeeling himself. The essay in sarcasm left the would-be victim entirelyuncrushed. He should have shrunk and withered up, or at the least haveblushed. But he did nothing of the sort. He merely smiled in hissupercilious way, until the Bishop felt very much inclined to springupon him and throw him out of the cab.

  There was another pause.

  'Farnie,' began Gethryn at last.

  'Um?'

  'Doesn't it strike you that for a kid like you you've got a good dealof edge on?' asked Gethryn.

  Farnie effected a masterly counter-stroke. He pretended not to be ableto hear. He was sorry, but would the Bishop mind repeating his remark.

  'Eh? What?' he said. 'Very sorry, but this cab's making such a row. Isay, cabby, why don't you sign the pledge, and save your money up tobuy a new cab? Eh? Oh, sorry! I wasn't listening.' Now, inasmuch as thewhole virtue of the 'wretched-little-kid-like-you' argument lies in thecrisp despatch with which it is delivered, Gethryn began to find, onrepeating his observation for the third time, that there was not quiteso much in it as he had thought. He prudently elected to change hisstyle of attack.

  'It doesn't matter,' he said wearily, as Farnie opened his mouth todemand a fourth encore, 'it wasn't anything important. Now, look here,I just want to give you a few tips about what to do when you get to theColl. To start with, you'll have to take off that white tie you've goton. Black and dark blue are the only sorts allowed here.'

  'How about yours then?' Gethryn was wearing a somewhat sweet thing inbrown and yellow.

  'Mine happens to be a First Eleven tie.'

  'Oh! Well, as a matter of fact, you know, I was going to take off mytie. I always do, especially at night. It's a sort of habit I've gotinto.'

  'Not quite so much of your beastly cheek, please,' said Gethryn.

  'Right-ho!' said Farnie cheerfully, and silence, broken only by theshrieking of the cab wheels, brooded once more over the cab. ThenGethryn, feeling that perhaps it would be a shame to jump too severelyon a new boy on his first day at a large public school, began to thinkof something conciliatory to say. 'Look here,' he said, 'you'll get onall right at Beckford, I expect. You'll find Leicester's a fairlydecent sort of House. Anyhow, you needn't be afraid you'll get bullied.There's none of that sort of thing at School nowadays.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes, and there's another thing I ought to warn you about. Have youbrought much money with you?'

  ''Bout fourteen pounds, I fancy,' said Farnie carelessly.

  'Fourteen _what_!' said the amazed Bishop. '_Pounds!_'

  'Or sovereigns,' said Farnie. 'Each worth twenty shillings, you know.'

  For a moment Gethryn's only feeling was one of unmixed envy. Previouslyhe had considered himself passing rich on thirty shillings a term. Hehad heard legends, of course, of individuals who come to Schoolbursting with bullion, but never before had he set eyes upon such anone. But after a time it began to dawn upon him that for a new boy at apublic school, and especially at such a House as Leicester's had becomeunder the rule of the late Reynolds and his predecessors, there mightbe such a thing as having too much money.

  'How the deuce did you get all that?' he asked.

  'My pater gave it me. He's absolutely cracked on the subject ofpocket-money. Sometimes he doesn't give me a sou, and sometimes he'llgive me whatever I ask for.'

  'But you don't mean to say you had the cheek to ask for fourteen quid?'

  'I asked for fifteen. Got it, too. I've spent a pound of it. I said Iwanted to buy a bike. You can get a jolly good bike for five quidabout, so you see I scoop ten pounds. What?'

  This ingenious, if slightly unscrupulous, feat gave Gethryn an insightinto his uncle's character which up till now he had lacked. He began tosee that the moral advice with which he had primed himself would be outof place. Evidently this youth could take quite good care of himself onhis own account. Still, even a budding Professor Moriarty would be nonethe worse for being warned against Gethryn's _bete noire_, Monk,so the Bishop proceeded to deliver that warning.

  'Well,' he said, 'you seem to be able to look out for yourself allright, I must say. But there's one tip I really can give you. When youget to Leicester's, and a beast with a green complexion and an oilysmile comes up and calls you "Old Cha-
a-p", and wants you to sweareternal friendship, tell him it's not good enough. Squash him!'

  'Thanks,' said Farnie. 'Who is this genial merchant?'

  'Chap called Monk. You'll recognize him by the smell of scent. When youfind the place smelling like an Eau-de-Cologne factory, you'll knowMonk's somewhere near. Don't you have anything to do with him.'

  'You seem to dislike the gentleman.'

  'I bar the man. But that isn't why I'm giving you the tip to steerclear of him. There are dozens of chaps I bar who haven't an ounce ofvice in them. And there are one or two chaps who have got tons. Monk'sone of them. A fellow called Danvers is another. Also a beast of thename of Waterford. There are some others as well, but those are theworst of the lot. By the way, I forgot to ask, have you ever been toschool before?'

  'Yes,' said Farnie, in the dreamy voice of one who recalls memoriesfrom the misty past, 'I was at Harrow before I came here, and atWellington before I went to Harrow, and at Clifton before I went toWellington.'

  Gethryn gasped.

  'Anywhere before you went to Clifton?' he enquired.

  'Only private schools.'

  The recollection of the platitudes which he had been delivering, underthe impression that he was talking to an entirely raw beginner, madeGethryn feel slightly uncomfortable. What must this wanderer, who hadseen men and cities, have thought of his harangue?

  'Why did you leave Harrow?' asked he.

  'Sacked,' was the laconic reply.

  Have you ever, asks a modern philosopher, gone upstairs in the dark,and trodden on the last step when it wasn't there? That sensation andthe one Gethryn felt at this unexpected revelation were identical. Andthe worst of it was that he felt the keenest desire to know why Harrowhad seen fit to dispense with the presence of his uncle.

  'Why?' he began. 'I mean,' he went on hurriedly, 'why did you leaveWellington?'

  'Sacked,' said Farnie again, with the monotonous persistence of aSolomon Eagle.

  Gethryn felt at this juncture much as the unfortunate gentleman in_Punch_ must have felt, when, having finished a humorous story,the point of which turned upon squinting and red noses, he suddenlydiscovered that his host enjoyed both those peculiarities. He struggledmanfully with his feelings for a time. Tact urged him to discontinuehis investigations and talk about the weather. Curiosity insisted uponknowing further details. Just as the struggle was at its height, Farniecame unexpectedly to the rescue.

  'It may interest you,' he said, 'to know that I was not sacked fromClifton.'

  Gethryn with some difficulty refrained from thanking him for theinformation.

  'I never stop at a school long,' said Farnie. 'If I don't get sacked myfather takes me away after a couple of terms. I went to four privateschools before I started on the public schools. My pater took me awayfrom the first two because he thought the drains were bad, the thirdbecause they wouldn't teach me shorthand, and the fourth because hedidn't like the headmaster's face. I worked off those schools in a yearand a half.' Having finished this piece of autobiography, he relapsedinto silence, leaving Gethryn to recollect various tales he had heardof his grandfather's eccentricity. The silence lasted until the Collegewas reached, when the matron took charge of Farnie, and Gethryn wentoff to tell Marriott of these strange happenings.

  Marriott was amused, nor did he attempt to conceal the fact. When hehad finished laughing, which was not for some time, he favoured theBishop with a very sound piece of advice. 'If I were you,' he said, 'Ishould try and hush this affair up. It's all fearfully funny, but Ithink you'd enjoy life more if nobody knew this kid was your uncle. Tosee the head of the House going about with a juvenile uncle in his wakemight amuse the chaps rather, and you might find it harder to keeporder; I won't let it out, and nobody else knows apparently. Go andsquare the kid. Oh, I say though, what's his name? If it's Gethryn,you're done. Unless you like to swear he's a cousin.'

  'No; his name's Farnie, thank goodness.'

  'That's all right then. Go and talk to him.'

  Gethryn went to the junior study. Farnie was holding forth to a knot offags at one end of the room. His audience appeared to be amused atsomething.

  'I say, Farnie,' said the Bishop, 'half a second.'

  Farnie came out, and Gethryn proceeded to inform him that, all thingsconsidered, and proud as he was of the relationship, it was notabsolutely essential that he should tell everybody that he was hisuncle. In fact, it would be rather better on the whole if he did not.Did he follow?

  Farnie begged to observe that he did follow, but that, to his sorrow,the warning came too late.

  'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'I hadn't the least idea you wanted thething kept dark. How was I to know? I've just been telling it to someof the chaps in there. Awfully decent chaps. They seemed to think itrather funny. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed of the relationship. Not yet, atany rate.'

  For a moment Gethryn seemed about to speak. He looked fixedly at hisuncle as he stood framed in the doorway, a cheerful column of cool,calm, concentrated cheek. Then, as if realizing that no words that heknew could do justice to the situation, he raised his foot in silence,and 'booted' his own flesh and blood with marked emphasis. After whichceremony he went, still without a word, upstairs again.

  As for Farnie, he returned to the junior day-room whistling 'DownSouth' in a soft but cheerful key, and solidified his growingpopularity with doles of food from a hamper which he had brought withhim. Finally, on retiring to bed and being pressed by the rest of hisdormitory for a story, he embarked upon the history of a certainPollock and an individual referred to throughout as the Porroh Man, theformer of whom caused the latter to be decapitated, and was everafterwards haunted by his head, which appeared to him all day and everyday (not excepting Sundays and Bank Holidays) in an upside-downposition and wearing a horrible grin. In the end Pollock very sensiblycommitted suicide (with ghastly details), and the dormitory thankedFarnie in a subdued and chastened manner, and tried, with smallsuccess, to go to sleep. In short, Farnie's first evening at Beckfordhad been quite a triumph.