Acton's Feud Part 27

"So you're quite safe now, Acton?" said Jack, beaming.

"Oh, quite," said Acton, laughing. "Now, Jack, you've been no end brickish, and I'm going to treat you. Ever seen a ballet?"

"No."

"Well, you shall."

A hansom flitted slowly up to them, and Acton hailed it. "In you get, Jack. Kingdom!" said Acton to the cabby. They glided noiselessly through the lighted streets, and in a minute or so were before the "Kingdom Theatre." The two hurried up the steps, and Acton asked an attendant if the ballet were rung up yet.

"No, sir. Two stalls, sir? Certainly. Twelve and thirteen are vacant."

Jack had never seen a ballet before, and when the gorgeous ballet "Katrina" slowly pa.s.sed before his eyes, and he followed the simple story which was almost interpreted by the lovely music, when every fresh scene seemed lovelier than all the rest, and fairyland was realized before his eyes, his face beamed with pleasure.

"This _is_ ripping, Acton. Isn't Katrina lovely? Jove! I'd hunt for Raffles every blessed night if there was a 'Kingdom' to finish up with!"

His enthusiasm amused Acton.

"It is very pretty, Jack, certainly."

For nearly an hour did Jack sit entranced, and when the orchestra crashed out the last floods of melody in the _finale_, and when most of the audience rose to go, he trotted out with Acton in a dream.

"We'll have a little supper at Frascati's, young 'un, and then home."

Frascati's completed the enchantment of Bourne. The beauty of the supper-room, the glitter of snowy linen, of mirrors, and the inviting crash of knives, and the clink of gla.s.ses, the busy orderliness of the waiters, the laughter, chatter of the visitors, the scents, the sights and sounds, fascinated him. Acton ordered a modest little supper, and when Jack had finally pushed away his plate Acton paid the bill, and went out to find the driver. He was there, the horse almost waltzing with impatience to be off. The two swung themselves up, and in another minute they were whirling along back to St. Amory's.

The St. Amory's clock could be heard striking the half hour after one when Jack and Acton parted at the corner of Corker's garden.

"Jack," said Acton, "good night! and you need not trouble about the 7.

You've done more for me than that, and I shall not forget it."

Jack, almost weeping with grat.i.tude, said, "Good night, Acton!" in a fervent whisper, and scuttled over Corker's flower-beds. He pushed up his window and crawled through, and, seeing that all was as he had left it after supper, he undressed and jumped into bed, and in a few minutes slept the sleep of the just.

Acton had managed his re-entrance just as successfully--did he ever fail?--and the thought of Bourne's hopeless rage, when he should find out about Jack's escapade, made him sleep the sleep of the happy man. He was made that way.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH.]

CHAPTER XXII

THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND

The Easter term had been one of unadulterated discomfort for Jim Cotton.

He had felt the loss of Gus's helping hand terribly, and he had not yet found another a.s.s to "devil" for him in the way of cla.s.sics or mathematics. Philips, a former understudy to Gus, was called upon, but with unsatisfactory results, and Cotton, _mirabile dictu_, was compelled in sheer desperation to try to do his own work. Frankly, the Fifth of St. Amory's was beyond Jim's very small attainments, cla.s.sical or otherwise. He had been hoisted up to that serene height by no means _honoris causa_, but _aetatis causa_. Jim was verging on six feet, and he filled his clothes very well into the bargain, and though his scholarship was strictly junior school, the spectacle of Jim in Fourth Form Etons would have been too entrancing a sight for daily contemplation. Hence he had got his remove. Thrown over by Gus, unable to discover a second jackal for the term so far, he had been left to the tender mercy of Corker, Merishall and Co., and Jim was inclined to think that they showed no quarter to a fallen foe. Corker had been distilled venom on the particular morning with which this chapter deals on the subject of Jim's Greek. Herodotus, as translated by Jim with the help of a well-thumbed Bohn's crib, had emerged as a most unalluring mess of pottage, and Dr. Moore had picked out Bohn's plums from Jim's paste with unerring accuracy. Whilst Cotton was wishing the roof would fall down on Corker's head and kill him, the other fellows in the Fifth were enjoying the fun. Gus Todd, though, felt for his old friend more than a touch of pity, and when old Corker left Jim alone finally, Gus very cleverly kept his attention away from Jim's quarter. When Corker finally drew his toga around him and hurried out, Jim Cotton gathered together his own books and lounged heavily into the street, sick of school, books, Corker, and hating Gus with a mighty sullen hate. For Jim had remarked Gus's sprightliness in the Greek ordeal, but was not clever enough to see that Gus's performance had been only for old friendship's sake. Jim, however, put down Todd's device as mere "side," "show-off," "toadyism," and other choice things, all trotted out specially for his eyes. When he reached his room he flung his Herodotus into the nearest chair, and himself into the most comfortable one, and then beat a vicious serenade on his firegrate with the poker until dinner time.

In the evening, while Jim was moodily planted before a small pile of books, he received a visitor, no less a personage than Philips, Jim's occasional hack.

"Well," said Jim, surlily, "what do you want?"

"I'll tell you in a minute, old boy. Can I have a chair?"

"Can't you see I'm busy?" said Cotton, unamiably.

"You look like it, more or less, certainly."

"Well, I've no time for any oratory to-night, Philips, and that is all about it."

"I'll give you a leg-up for Merishall in the morning if you're decently civil."

"All right, then," said Jim, thawing instantly. "What's the matter?"

"Ever heard of Penfold?"

"No; what was the animal?"

"Well, he was the brightest and most particular star that Taylor ever had in his house; that is, until you pitched your tent among us."

"Don't rot, Philips. What has the Penfold done?"

"Made a chemical discovery which stamps him as one of the first half-dozen chemists in the world."

"Oh," said Jim, wearily; "most interestin', very."

"Here only ten years ago, and, 'pon honour, this was his very den."

"Have noticed the place to be stuffy," said Jim, with no enthusiasm, "and now that is explained. Suppose he lived with his nose in books and test-tubes?"

"And," said Philips, ignoring Jim's heavy wit, "the Fifth and Sixth Form fellows in Taylor's think we ought to take notice of it somehow."

"Now, I wouldn't," said Cotton, critically; "I'd keep a thing like that dark."

"You heathen!"

"If he'd pulled stroke at Cambridge, or anything like that----"

"We thought a tablet on the wall, or something of that sort, would meet the case. Corker's dining-hall is lined with 'em."

"Get to the point," said Jim, grimly.

"A sub. of five shillings among seniors, and half a crown among the kids, would meet the case, I think."

"And did you think I'd spring a crown for a marble tablet to a mug like Penfold?"

"Rather," said Philips.

"Well," said Jim, "life would be worth living here if it weren't for the unearthly smugging, but as it is St. Amory's is about as lively as a workhouse. I'm not forking out on this occasion. Taylor's smugs must do all that is necessary to be done."