The Hill Part 5

"Yes," said the Caterpillar.

"I never believed it," said Scaife.

"He was a Spaniard,[8] or an Italian, you know," the Duffer explained.

"The duke of something or t'other; and an amba.s.sador came down and offered the beggar the Spanish crown, when he was in the First Fourth, and of course he gobbled it--who wouldn't? And then Victor Emmanuel interfered. That's all true, you can take your Bible oath, because my governor told me so, and he--well, he's a parson."

"Then it _must_ be true," said Scaife. "Now, young Fluff, don't forget that Harrow is a school fit for a king and nearer to Heaven than Eton by at least six hundred feet."

So saying, the Demon marched out of the room, followed by Fluff, slightly limping.

"Sorry I turfed[9] that little a.s.s so hard," said the Duffer to John. "I say, Verney, the Demon is rather a rum 'un, ain't he? Sometimes I can't quite make him out. He's frightfully clever and all that, but I had a sort of beastly feeling just now that he didn't--eh?--quite mean what he said. Was he laughin' at _us_, pullin' our legs--what?"

John's brain worked slowly, as he had found out to his cost under a form-master who maintained that it was no use having a fact stored in the head unless it slipped readily out of the mouth. The Duffer, who never thought, because speaking was so much easier, grew impatient at John's silence.

"Well, you needn't look like an owl, Verney. You know that Scaife's grandfather was a navvy."

"I don't know," John replied.

"And I don't care," said the Duffer. "Let's go and have some food at the Creameries."

Looking back afterwards, John often wondered whether, unconsciously, the Duffer had sown a grain of mustard-seed destined to grow into a large tree. Or, had the intuition that Scaife was other than what he seemed furnished the fertile soil into which the seed fell? In any case, from the end of this first week began to increase the suspicion, which eventually became conviction, that the Demon, keen at games, popular in his house, clever at work--clever, indeed! inasmuch as he never achieved more or less than was necessary--generous with his money, handsome and well-mannered, blessed, in fine, with so many gifts of the G.o.ds, yet lacked a soul.

This, of course, is putting into words the vague speculations and reasonings of a boy not yet fourteen. If an Olympian--one of the masters, for instance, or the Head of the House--had said, "Verney, has the Demon a soul?" John would have answered promptly, "Ra--ther! He's been awfully decent to Fluff and me. We'd have had a hot time if it hadn't been for him," and so forth.... And, indeed, to doubt Scaife's sincerity and goodness seemed at times gross disloyalty, because he stood, firm as a rock, between the two urchins in his room and the turbulent crowd outside. This defence of the weak, this guarding of green fruit from the maw of Lower School boys, afforded Scaife an opportunity of exercising power. He had the instincts of the potter, inherited, no doubt; and he moulded the clay ready to his hand with the delight of a master-workman. n.o.body else knew what the man of millions had said to his boy when he despatched him to Harrow; but the Demon remembered every word. He had reason to respect and fear his sire.

"I'm sending you to Harrow to study, not books nor games, but boys, who will be men when you are a man. And, above all, study their weaknesses.

Look for the flaws. Teach yourself to recognize at a glance the liar, the humbug, the fool, the egotist, and the mule. Make friends with as many as are likely to help you in after life, and don't forget that one enemy may inflict a greater injury than twenty friends can repair.

Spend money freely; dress well; swim with the tide, not against it."

A year at Harrow confirmed Scaife's confidence in his father's worldly wisdom. Big for his age, strong, with his grandsire's muscles, tough as hickory, he had become the leader of the Lower School boys at the Manor.

The Fifth were civil to him, recognizing, perhaps, the expediency of leaving him alone ever since the incident of the cricket stump. The Sixth found him the quickest of the f.a.gs and uncommonly obliging. His house-master signed reports which neither praised nor blamed. To Dirty d.i.c.k the boy was the son of a man who could write a cheque for a million.

Two things worthy of record happened within a month; the one of lesser importance can be set down first. Charles Desmond, Caesar's father, came down to Harrow and gave a luncheon at the King's Head. From time immemorial the Desmonds had been educated on the Hill. The family had produced some famous soldiers, a Lord Chancellor, and a Prime Minister.

In the Fourth Form Room the stranger may read their names carved in oak, and they are carved also in the hearts of all ardent Harrovians. Mr.

Desmond, though a Cabinet Minister, found time to visit Harrow once at least in each term. He always chose a whole holiday, and after attending eleven-o'clock Bill[10] in the Yard, would carry off his son and his son's friends. The School knew him and loved him. To the thoughtful he stood for the ill.u.s.trious past, the epitome of what John Lyon's[11] boys had fought for and accomplished. Four sons had he--Harrovians all. Of these Caesar was youngest and last. Each had distinguished himself on the Hill either in work or play, or in both.

Charles Desmond stood upon the step just above the master who was calling Bill.

"That's Caesar's father," said Scaife. "I'm going to lunch with him.

Isn't he a topper?"

John's eyes were popping out of his face. He had never seen any man like this resplendent, stately personage, smiling and nodding to the biggest fellows in the school.

"And my governor says," Scaife added, "that he's not a rich man, nothing much to speak of in the way of income over and above his screw as a Cabinet Minister."

Scaife moved away, and John could hear him say to another boy, in an easy, friendly tone, "Mr. Desmond told Caesar that he wanted to meet _me_--very civil of him--eh?"

Presently John was in line waiting to pa.s.s by the steps.

"Verney?"

"Here, sir."

He was hurrying by, with a backward glance at the great man. Suddenly Caesar's father beckoned, nodding cheerily. John ascended the steps, to feel the grasp of a strong hand, to hear a ringing voice.

"You're John Verney's nephew. Just so. I think I should have spotted you, even if Harry had not told me you were in his form. You must lunch with us. Cut along, now."

So John was dismissed, brim-full of happiness, which almost overflowed when Caesar met him with an eager--

"I'm so glad, Verney. I say, the governor's a nailer at picking out the old names, isn't he?"

So John ate his luncheon in distinguished company, and felt himself for the first time to be somebody. As the youngest guest present, to him was accorded the place of honour, next the most charming host in Christendom, who put him at ease in a jiffy. How good the cutlets and the pheasant tasted! And how the talk warmed the c.o.c.kles of his heart!

The brand of the Crossed Arrows shone upon all topics. Who could expect, or desire, aught else! Caesar's governor seemed to know what every Harrovian had done worth the doing. Easily, fluently, he discoursed of triumphs won at home, abroad, in the camp, on the hustings, at the bar, in the pulpit. And his anecdotes, which ill.u.s.trated every phase of life, how pat to the moment they were! One boy complained ruefully of having spent three terms under a form-master who had "ragged" him. Charles Desmond sympathized--

"Bless my soul," said he, "don't I remember being three terms in the Third Fifth when that tartar old Heriot had it? I dare swear I got no more than my deserts. I was an idle vagabond, but Heriot made my life such a burden to me that I entreated my people to take me away from Harrow. And then my governor urged me to put my back into the work and get a remove. And I did. And would you believe it, upon the first day of the next term I wired to my people, 'You must take me away. I've got my remove all right--and so has Heriot.'"

How gaily the speaker led the laugh which followed this recital! And the chaff! Was it possible that Caesar dared to chaff a man who was supposed to have the peace of Europe in his keeping? And, by Jove! Caesar could hold his own.

So the minutes flew. But John noticed, with surprise, that the Demon didn't score. In fact, John and he were the only guests that contributed nothing to the feast save hearty appet.i.tes. It was strange that the Demon, the wit of his house and form, never opened his mouth except to fill it with food. He answered, it is true, and very modestly, the questions addressed to him by his host; but then, as John reflected, any silly fool in the Fourth Form could do that.

After luncheon, the boys were dismissed, each with a hearty word of encouragement and half a sovereign. John was pa.s.sing the plate-gla.s.s splendours of the Creameries, when the Demon overtook him, and they walked down the winding High Street together. Scaife had never walked with John before.

"That was worth while," Scaife said quietly. John could not interpret this speech, save in its obvious meaning.

"Rather," he replied.

"Why?" said Scaife, very sharply.

"Eh?"

"Why was it worth while?"

John stammered out something about good food and jolly talk.

"Pooh!" said Scaife, contemptuously. "I thought you had brains, Verney."

He glanced at him keenly. "Now, speak out. What's in that head of yours?

You can be cheeky, if you like."

John wondered how Scaife had divined that he wished to be cheeky. His mentor had said so much to Fluff and him about the propriety of not putting on "lift" or "side" in the presence of an older boy, that he had choked back a retort which occurred to him.

"You're thinking," continued the Demon, in his clear voice, "that I didn't use my brains just now, but, my blooming innocent, I can a.s.sure you I did. Very much so. I played 'possum. Put that into your little pipe and smoke it."

At four-o'clock Bill, John noticed Caesar's absence: a fact accounted for by the presence of a mail-phaeton, which, he knew, belonged to Mr.

Desmond, drawn up--oddly enough--opposite the Manor. What a joke to think that Caesar was drinking tea with Dirty d.i.c.k!