The Hill | Page 9

shrill treble voices. The booming basses and baritones of the big fellows made him shiver with a curious bitter-sweet sensation never experienced before.
Lastly, the pleasant discovery that his Form treated him with courtesy and kindness. Desmond, in particular, welcomed him quite warmly. And then and there John's heart was filled with a wild and unreasonable yearning for this boy's friendship. But Desmond--he was called "C?sar," because his Christian names were Henry Julius--seemed to be very popular, a bright particular star, far beyond John's reach although for ever in his sight. C?sar never offered to walk with him: and he refused John's timid invitation to have food at the "Tudor Creameries."[7] Was it possible that a boy about to enter Damer's would not be seen walking and talking with a fellow out of Dirty Dick's? This possibility festered, till one morning John saw his idol walking up and down the School Yard with Scaife. That evening he said to Scaife--
"Do you like Desmond?"
"Yes," Scaife replied decisively. "I like him better than any fellow at Harrow. You know that his father is Charles Desmond--the Cabinet Minister and a Governor of the school?"
"I didn't know it. I suppose C?sar Desmond likes you--awfully."
"Do you? I doubt it."
No more was said. John told himself that C?sar--he liked to think of Desmond as C?sar--could pick and choose a pal out of at least three hundred boys, half the school. How extremely unlikely that he, John, would be chosen! But every night he lay awake for half an hour longer than he ought to have done, wondering how, by hook or crook, he could do a service to C?sar which must challenge interest and provoke, ultimately, friendship.
Meantime, he was slowly initiated by the Caterpillar into Harrow ways and customs. Fagging, which began after the first fortnight, he found a not unpleasant duty. After first and fourth schools the other fags and he would stand not far from the pantry, and yell out "Breakfast," or "Tea," as it might be, "for Number So-and-So." Perhaps one had to nip up to the Creameries to get a slice of salmon, or cutlets, or sausages. Fagging at Harrow--which varies slightly in different houses--is hard or easy according to the taste and fancy of the fag's master. Some of the Sixth Form at the Manor made their fags unlace their dirty football boots. Kinloch, who since he left the nursery had been waited upon by powdered footmen six feet high, now found, to his disgust, that he had to varnish Trieve's patent-leathers for Sunday. Trieve was second in command, and had been known as "Miss" Trieve. John would have gladly done this and more for Lawrence, his fag-master; but Lawrence, a manly youth, scorned sybaritic services. The Caterpillar taught John to carry his umbrella unfolded, to wear his "straw" straight (a slight list to port was allowed to "Bloods" only), not to walk in the middle of the road, and so forth. How he used to envy the members of the Elevens as they rolled arm-in-arm down the High Street! How often he wondered if the day would ever dawn when C?sar and he, outwardly and inwardly linked together, would stroll up and down the middle-walk below the Chapel Terrace: that sunny walk, whence, on a fair day, you can see the insatiable monster, London, filling the horizon and stretching red, reeking hands into the sweet country--the middle-walk, from which all but Bloods were rigidly excluded.
Much to his annoyance--an annoyance, be it said, which he managed to hide--John seemed to attract young Kinloch almost as magnetically as he himself was attracted to C?sar. John had not the heart to shake off the frail, delicate child, who was christened "Fluff" after his first appearance in public. Fluff had taken the First Fourth and ingenuously confessed to any one who cared to listen that he ought to have gone to Eton. A beast of a doctor prescribed the Hill. And even the almighty duke failed to get him into Damer's, another grievance. He had been entered since birth at the crack house at Eton; and now to be pitchforked into Dirty Dick's at Harrow----! The Duffer kicked him, feeling an unspeakable cad when poor Fluff burst into tears.
"Sorry," said the Duffer. "Only you mustn't slang Harrow. And you'd better get it into your silly head that it's the best school in this or any other world--isn't it, Demon?"
"I'm sure the Verneys, and the Egertons, and the Duffs have always thought so."
"But it isn't really," whimpered poor Fluff. "You fellows know that everybody talks of Eton and Harrow. Who ever heard of Harrow and Eton? People say--I've heard my eldest brother, Strathpeffer, say it again and again--'Eton and Harrow,' just as they say 'Gentlemen and Players.'"
"Oh," said the Caterpillar. "The Etonians are the gentlemen--eh? Well,