The Gold Bat | Page 6

but of gold. And so it came to pass that at the
time of our story Trevor was in possession of the little gold bat,
because Donaldson's had won the cup in the previous summer, and he
had captained them--and, incidentally, had scored seventy-five without
a mistake.
"Well, I'm hanged if I would trust O'Hara with my bat," said Clowes,

referring to the silver ornament on his own watch-chain; "he's probably
pawned yours in the holidays. Why did you lend it to him?"
"His people wanted to see it. I know him at home, you know. They
asked me to lunch the last day but one of the holidays, and we got
talking about the bat, because, of course, if we hadn't beaten Dexter's in
the final, O'Hara would have had it himself. So I sent it over next day
with a note asking O'Hara to bring it back with him here."
"Oh, well, there's a chance, then, seeing he's only had it so little time,
that he hasn't pawned it yet. You'd better rush off and get it back as
soon as possible. It's no good waiting for me. I shan't be ready for
weeks."
"Where's Paget?"
"Teaing with Donaldson. At least, he said he was going to."
"Then I suppose I shall have to go alone. I hate walking alone."
"If you hurry," said Clowes, scanning the road from his post of vantage,
"you'll be able to go with your fascinating pal Ruthven. He's just gone
out."
Trevor dashed downstairs in his energetic way, and overtook the youth
referred to.
Clowes brooded over them from above like a sorrowful and rather
disgusted Providence. Trevor's liking for Ruthven, who was a
Donaldsonite like himself, was one of the few points on which the two
had any real disagreement. Clowes could not understand how any
person in his senses could of his own free will make an intimate friend
of Ruthven.
"Hullo, Trevor," said Ruthven.
"Come over to the baths," said Trevor, "I want to see O'Hara about
something. Or were you going somewhere else."

"I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I never know what to do in
term-time. It's deadly dull."
Trevor could never understand how any one could find term-time dull.
For his own part, there always seemed too much to do in the time.
"You aren't allowed to play games?" he said, remembering something
about a doctor's certificate in the past.
"No," said Ruthven. "Thank goodness," he added.
Which remark silenced Trevor. To a person who thanked goodness that
he was not allowed to play games he could find nothing to say. But he
ceased to wonder how it was that Ruthven was dull.
They proceeded to the baths together in silence. O'Hara, they were
informed by a Dexter's fag who met them outside the door, was not
about.
"When he comes back," said Trevor, "tell him I want him to come to
tea tomorrow directly after school, and bring my bat. Don't forget."
The fag promised to make a point of it.

III
THE MAYOR'S STATUE
One of the rules that governed the life of Donough O'Hara, the
light-hearted descendant of the O'Haras of Castle Taterfields, Co. Clare,
Ireland, was "Never refuse the offer of a free tea". So, on receipt--per
the Dexter's fag referred to--of Trevor's invitation, he scratched one
engagement (with his mathematical master--not wholly unconnected
with the working-out of Examples 200 to 206 in Hall and Knight's
Algebra), postponed another (with his friend and ally Moriarty, of
Dexter's, who wished to box with him in the gymnasium), and made his
way at a leisurely pace towards Donaldson's. He was feeling

particularly pleased with himself today, for several reasons. He had
begun the day well by scoring brilliantly off Mr Dexter across the
matutinal rasher and coffee. In morning school he had been put on to
translate the one passage which he happened to have prepared--the first
ten lines, in fact, of the hundred which formed the morning's lesson.
And in the final hour of afternoon school, which was devoted to French,
he had discovered and exploited with great success an entirely new and
original form of ragging. This, he felt, was the strenuous life; this was
living one's life as one's life should be lived.
He met Trevor at the gate. As they were going in, a carriage and pair
dashed past. Its cargo consisted of two people, the headmaster, looking
bored, and a small, dapper man, with a very red face, who looked
excited, and was talking volubly. Trevor and O'Hara raised their caps
as the chariot swept by, but the salute passed unnoticed. The Head
appeared to be wrapped in thought.
"What's the Old Man doing in a carriage, I wonder," said Trevor,
looking after them. "Who's that with him?"
"That," said O'Hara,