The Hill | Page 5

that at Harrow it was bad form to ask questions. As he
wanted to ask a question, a very important question, this enforced
silence became exasperating.
Presently Scaife said, "I suppose you are one of the Claydon lot."
"No; my home is in the New Forest. My uncle is Verney of Verney
Boscobel."
"Oh! his name is on the panels at the head of the staircase; and it's
carved on a bed in the next room."

"Crikey! I must go and look at it."
"You can look at the panels, of course; but don't say 'Crikey!' and don't
go into the next room. Two Fifth Form fellows have it. It would be
infernal cheek."
John hoped that Scaife would offer to accompany him to the panels.
Then he went alone. It being now within half an hour of lock-up, the
passages were swarming with boys. Soon John would see them
assembled in Hall, where their names would be called over by Rutford.
Everybody--John had been told--was expected to be present at this first
call-over, except a few boys who might be coming from a distance.
John worked his way along the upper passage, and down the second
flight of stairs till he came to the first landing. Here, close to the house
notice-board, were some oak panels covered with names and dates, all
carved--so John learned later--by a famous Harrow character, Sam
Hoare, once "Custos" of the School. The boy glanced eagerly, ardently,
up and down the panels. Ah, yes, here was his father's name, and
here--his uncle's. And then out of the dull, finely-grained oak, shone
other names familiar to all who love the Hill and its traditions. John's
heart grew warm again with pride in the house that had held such men.
The name of the great statesman and below it a mighty warrior's made
him thrill and tremble. They were Old Harrovians, these fellows, men
whom his uncle had known, men of whom his dear mother, wise soul!
had spoken a thousand times. The landing and the passages were
roaring with the life of the present moment. Boys, big and small, were
chaffing each other loudly. Under some circumstances, this new-comer,
a stranger, ignored entirely, might have felt desolate and forlorn in the
heart of such a crowd; but John was tingling with delight and pleasure.
Suddenly, the noise moderated. John, looking up, saw a big fellow
slowly approaching, exchanging greetings with everybody. John turned
to a boy close to him.
"Who is it?" he whispered.
The other boy answered curtly, "Lawrence, the Head of the House."

The big fellow suddenly caught John's eyes. What he read
there--admiration, respect, envy--brought a slight smile to his lips.
"Your name?" he demanded.
"Verney."
Lawrence held out his hand, simply and yet with a certain dignity.
"I heard you were coming," he said, keenly examining John's face. "We
can't have too many Verneys. If I can do anything for you, let me
know."
He nodded, and strode on. John saw that several boys were staring with
a new interest. None, however, spoke to him; and he returned to his
room with a blushing face. Scaife had unpacked his clothes and put
them away; he was now surveying the bare walls with undisguised
contempt.
"Isn't this a beastly hole?" he remarked.
John, always interested in people rather than things, examined the room
carefully. Passing down the passage he had caught glimpses of other
rooms: some charmingly furnished, gay with chintz, embellished with
pictures, Japanese fans, silver cups, and other trophies. Comparing
these with his own apartment, John said shyly--
"It's not very beefy."
"Beefy? You smell of a private school, Verney. Now, is it worth doing
up? You see, I shall be in a two-room next term. If we all chip in----"
he paused.
"I've brought back two quid," said John.
Scaife's smile indicated neither approval nor the reverse. John's
ingenuous confidence provoked none in return.
"We'll talk about it when Kinloch arrives. I wonder why his people sent

him here."
John had studied some books, but not the Peerage. The great name of
Kinloch was new to him, not new to Scaife, who, for a boy, knew his
"Burke" too odiously well.
"Why shouldn't his people send him here?" he asked.
"Because," Scaife's tone was contemptuous, "because the
Kinlochs--they're a great cricketing family--go to Eton. The duke must
have some reason."
"The duke?"
"Hang it, surely you have heard of the Duke of Trent?"
"Yes," said John, humbly. "And this is his son?" He glanced at the label
on the new portmanteau.
"Whose son should he be?" said Scaife. "Well, it's queer. Dukes[3] and
dukes' sons come to Harrow--all the Hamiltons were here, and the
FitzRoys, and the St. Maurs--but the Kinlochs, as I say, have gone to
Eton. It's a rum thing--very.