THE COMPLETE DAVID BLAIZE TRILOGY (Illustrated Edition). Эдвард Бенсон

smoked when they were in training. Again, if his vow was not accepted as a reason for abstention, he would have to resign, but that he really did not mind about, for it was stupid to put smoking before cricket. Also the secret of the smoking club had somehow leaked out, and now that the badge was no longer a mystery to those who did not belong, half the fun was gone. This badge was a piece of copper-wire bent into the shape of S. C., for Smoking Club, and when they were engaged in these sacred operations, it had to be worn in the buttonhole; otherwise there was a fine of a halfpenny, which helped to fill the coffers of the club, and was spent in cigarettes. But only last week Bags, who did not belong, happened to see his badge, and said casually, “Hullo, you belong to the Sick Club, do you?” This was annoying, because it not only implied a knowledge of the club, but darkly alluded to its rules. David had been ready enough on this occasion, and had answered smartly, “If you belonged to an S. C., it would be the Sneak Club,” and the shot had gone home, for Bags had sneaked once. Of course it was ever so long ago, the term before last, before Bags had become a decent chap, and the incident had been suitably buried. But the thought of its possible resuscitation made Bags extremely civil for several days.

      Certain words, “the horror of sin, the infamy of evil,” caught David’s ears at this moment, and he attended for a little. It seemed to him rather poor stuff, and why the Head should sway about and shout like that was impossible to conjecture. But it gave him a hint, and David, closely listening, intended to reproduce some of it in dormitory that night. A night-shirt made an admirable surplice, and a pair of trousers hung over the shoulders would make a ripping stole. He himself would be the Head, as he had thought of it, and Stone and Ferrers should be stuffed with pillows to represent Goggles and Carrots, with his bed as the organ. David would march the whole way down the dormitory, after the matron had gone, with the Head’s rocking walk and some cotton-wool for a beard, preceded by a small boy carrying a poker. . . .

      Then suddenly the Head’s voice changed; it became extraordinarily solemn and beautiful, as it did sometimes when he read to them. And the words were beautiful, and they affected David in that puzzling, incomprehensible manner in which words did. Words and the pictures, dim and only half-conscious, that they produced in his mind, often had that effect on him; they gave him a sort of homesick yearning, and an ache, as if his mind was hungry. And it was clear that what he was saying moved the Head in the same sort of way; his voice shook and grew lower yet, reminding David of something he had felt once when he woke early and heard the chirruping of birds before daybreak. . . .

      “So prepare to be men,” he said, “and when manhood dawns on you, let it dawn on you as on the clean dewy grass, with birds singing in your hearts, and innocence still looking from your eyes. Never contemplate evil, and the desire of it will fade from you. Run away from it, if by staying near it you would yield, and ‘Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, think on those things.’ ”

      David gave a little gulp; not only were these beautiful words, but they meant something. . . .

      But the sermon was over, and it was impossible not to remember that in a few minutes now he would be having tea in the housekeeper’s room, while the wretched Dubs was doing the Head the honour to wait on him. It had been “jam” to see the Head stamp on that yellow-covered book! And, with any luck, the fragments of it would be in the grate of the museum to-morrow. David determined to get up early, and see what it was about. It was in French, which was a bore, but it was worth while, even at the trouble of looking out heaps of words, to see what it was that had made the Head in such a wax. . . . Or had it something to do with the things the Head told them they must run away from. . . .

      Rum old bird, the Head. But he did say jolly things sometimes.

      Chapter III

       Table of Contents

      The tea which (with the Head’s compliments) Mrs. Lowe provided after chapel was an apotheosis of tea. The Head’s dinner was going on simultaneously, and the most delicious remainders were brought in from it for the boys, ending with an ice pudding that at its entrance was practically untouched, though soon there was nothing left to touch. It had really been worth while to voyage at such peril over unknown seas and lands, if this was to be the eventful haven, and when, at the end, Ferrers proposed the health of Iconium, his toast was drunk with acclamation. Thereafter was a little quiet ragging, but David had not joined in this, for when he was seized by somebody he had said in plethoric tones, “For God’s sake, don’t bend me, or I shall be sick,” and for fear of that untoward result he had been left alone. Bags also was not disposed to active exercise, and David had taken the opportunity to be agreeable, according to his resolution in chapel.

      “I say, I hope I didn’t hurt you, Bags,” he said.

      “You see I had to kick you just once to make it all square. Is it pax?”

      Bags looked sideways at David, with his shallow, goat-like eyes before he answered.

      “Oh, rather,” he said. “It wasn’t anything. You hardly touched me.”

      This was surprising, for David had the distinct impression in his toe and instep that this particular kick had been a juicy one.

      “Right oh, then,” he said. “I say, there’s one piece of cake left. Shall we halve it?”

      “Couldn’t,” said Bags, getting up.

      Though he could not be bent, David thought that a cautious attack might defeat the one piece of cake, and strategically accomplished this. But it was funny that Bags should not have tried, too, and for a moment he had suspicions.

      “It is pax, then?” he asked.

      “Oh, rather,” said Bags. “And your lip’s all right, isn’t it, Blazes? Quite clean, I mean. I think the Head only gassed about that on the spur of the moment. Will you swear I washed it, if necessary?”

      “Oh, yes,” said David. “Gosh, I’m full. And I’m going to preach in dormitory, night-shirt and trousers for a stole. I can remember lots of the sermon.”

      “Oh, may I come?” asked Bags.

      “Right, but don’t be sarcastic and spoil the show. It’ll be in my cubicle.”

      “Rather not,” said Bags, moving away. “May I be Goggles or Carrots?”

      “Sorry; Stone and Ferrers have bagged them. But you might blow the organ, and let it go out with a squeak, same as it did this evening.”

      “Oh, thanks; that’ll be ripping,” said Bags, beginning to practise squeaking in a realistic and organ-like manner.

       Now Bags’s mater was, as all the world knew, a Jewess. Bags had volunteered that information himself on his first day at school, adding loftily that she was of the tribe of Judah. This, if it was meant to be impressive, had singularly failed in its object, and the only consequence was that, for his first term or so, Bags had been the butt of various embarrassing questions as to whether he was allowed to eat sausages, or observed other Levitical injunctions. David, as a matter of fact, had not joined in these painful catechisms, holding that it wasn’t fair to consider a fellow responsible for his mater, but he had always secretly felt that this might account for there being something rather odd about Bags. For Bags had a retentive and vindictive memory, and was ever on the look-out to repay antique scores, though other people would have forgotten all about them. It was therefore not likely that he would have overlooked a scene so recent as this kick, and after Bags had gone, David said to himself that he was being “too infernally genial”—a jolly sounding word, which he had just learned—to deceive the wary. In fact, though Bags had definitely agreed that it should be pax, David was subconsciously a little suspicious of him, and this attitude was confirmed by Bags having said that that one beautiful kick had hardly touched him. It absolutely must have: there was no mistaking the quality of the touch. But he did not dwell on it much; should Bags prove to be bellicose still, in spite of the treaty, he felt the utmost confidence that he could deal with him.