Tales of St. Austins | Page 2

know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort,
who could know?
'If you'll kindly explain,' said Smythe, 'what the dickens you are talking
about, I might be able to tell you.'
Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that 'it' meant the Livy
examination.
'Oh,' said Smythe, airily, 'that! I'm just going to skim through it in case
I've forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notes carefully. And
then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the history of the period. I
should advise you to do that, too.'
'Oh, don't be a goat,' said Pillingshot.
And he retired, brooding, as before.
That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of
The Aeneid. At the beginning of the week he had had a slight
disagreement with M. Gerard, the French master.
Pillingshot's views on behaviour and deportment during French lessons
did not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of a French
lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum at
football. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in the
process of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space,
and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a very
undeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on
the thing happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extra
lesson on the ensuing Wednesday.
So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil.
He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As he

came out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebody
being carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. At the
same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards the
School shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression of
one who sees much ginger-beer in the near future.
'Hullo, Parker,' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?'
'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were in
extra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something.'
'How did it happen?'
'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know,
getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one of
his drives. Got him on the side of the head.'
'Much hurt?'
'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.'
'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head.
Come and hit me on the head, Parker.'
'Come and have an ice,' said Parker.
'Right-ho,' said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, that whatever
the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal to consuming
an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinite capacity for
taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised ice when another
misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven, entered the shop.
Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind to certain flaws in the
latter's character. For one thing, he was too energetic. For another, he
could not keep his energy to himself. He was always making
Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot's notion of the ideal life was
complete dolce far niente.
'Ginger-beer, please,' said Scott, with parched lips. He had been
bowling at the nets, and the day was hot. 'Hullo! Pillingshot, you young
slacker, why aren't you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games?
You'd better reform, young man.'
'I've been in extra,' said Pillingshot, with dignity.
'How many times does that make this term? You're going for the record,
aren't you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn't it? 'Nother
ginger-beer, please.'
'Just a bit,' said Pillingshot.
'I thought so. And now you're dying for some excitement. Of course

you are. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back
and field at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of his
celebrated slow tosh, and I'm going to show him exactly how Jessop
does it when he's in form.'
Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr Yorke was one of the
masters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops.
Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in the deep
with Mr Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contribute largely
to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meant that you
stood in the middle of the football field, where there was no telling
what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If you were
lucky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ball bumped
and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height to which it
rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself.
'Don't talk