Captains of Harley: A School Story — Themes and Context

d he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.”

There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head regretfully.

“There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.”

And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness.

At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading:

“Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a suggestion, my lad.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the truth.”

Rouse cleared his throat.

“Well, I think you may be right. It’ll be difficult for anyone to believe _that_ poor boy capable of practising deceit. In fact one may say that he looks strongly like a boy who could be depended upon to forget his ticket.”

The train came suddenly into daylight again and Rouse stopped abruptly.

The fat boy was weeping.

Rouse stared at him for a moment, then looked askance at Terence, and finally he turned a sternly prefectorial eye upon the boy in the corner who had hitherto somewhat escaped his notice. The boy looked back at him a little uncertainly with a half smile. He was not at all sure whether it was good form to laugh at a boy who was crying. Rouse gave him no hint. He just looked: and presently the other blinked at him apologetically. Actually Rouse was deciding, as he afterwards told Terence, what a peculiarly good-looking kid he was.

“What’s your name?” said he at last.

“Carr,” said the boy in the corner.

“And which house are you going to?”

“Mr Morley’s, I think.”

“Over that house,” said Rouse, “I weave my spell. Also Friend Nicholson there. We were in that house when an arch-idiot named Mould ruled over our form, and at one time I must confess we appeared to be sinking. Yet, as we came up for the third time, so to speak, he was removed, and we survived. You’ll find Morley all right.” He turned to Arthur a little awkwardly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” said he courteously, “but to which house are you being admitted?”

The fat boy did not raise his head. He simply continued to weep, and at last there broke from his lips these sad words: “I want my t-t-ticket.”

Rouse fumbled in his pocket and at last produced a small piece of chalk.

“Here you are,” said he. “Draw yourself one on the wall.”

From that time onward the conversation was maintained solely by the expectant captain of Rugby football. Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, but he had a great deal. Terence Nicholson sat in his corner with the reminiscent smile of the man one may notice in the stalls of any theatre—the man who has seen the show twice before but who is enjoying it all none the less for that.

Bobbie Carr listened with deep and genuine interest, but he said nothing. He was too hypnotised. His large eyes followed Rouse’s every movement and never wavered.

Arthur merely swayed backwards and forwards in his seat, and sometimes when the train stopped with a jerk he was jolted forward on to the knees of the boy in the corner, over whom he hung with sagging head; then when the train started again was bumped back so that he cracked his skull against the wall of the compartment, but he seemed not to care.

At last they reached Harley.

As soon as they had alighted the large figure of a man suddenly appeared from nowhere and loomed over them. The man was dressed exceedingly well and exceedingly comfortably in Harris tweeds. He wore a soft hat and a club tie, and his large feet were enclosed in large brogue shoes. Even his pipe was large. His hand reached out and rested upon Terence’s shoulder. Finally he looked at Rouse.

“As for you,” said he, “it’s no use you saying you’re not there, because I can see your ears flapping behind that grin.”