The Hill | Page 9

died prematurely.
Secondly, John played in a house-game at football, and learned the
difference between a scrimmage at a small preparatory school and the
genuine thing at Harrow. Lawrence insisted that all new boys should
play, and the Caterpillar informed him that he would have to learn the
rules of Harrow "footer" by heart, and pass a stiff examination in them
before the House Eleven, with the penalty of being forced to sing them
in Hall if he failed to satisfy his examiners. The Duffer lent him a
House-shirt of green and white stripes, and a pair of white duck shorts,
and with what pride John put them on, thinking of the far distant day
when he would wear a "fez"[5] instead of the commonplace house-cap!
Lawrence said a few words.
"You'll have to play the compulsory games, Verney, which begin after
the Goose Match,[6] but I want to see you playing as hard as ever you
can in the house-games. You'll be knocked about a bit; but a Verney

won't mind that--eh?"
"Rather not," said John, feeling very valiant.
Thirdly, there was the first Sunday, and the first sermon of the Head
Master, with its plain teaching about the opportunities and perils of
Public School life. John found himself mightily affected by the singing,
and the absence of 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
"Cæsar," 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. Cæsar 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 Cæsar Desmond likes you--awfully."
"Do you? I doubt it."
No more was said. John told himself that Cæsar--he liked to think of
Desmond as Cæsar--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 Cæsar 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 Cæsar 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