"I was very polite--at first," pleaded John.

"Hook it now, anyway," said Authority.

"Not till he promises. If you turn me out, I'll come back after you're gone."

"What is it you want him to promise?"

John had achieved his object.

"I want him to leave young Kinloch _alone_."

The two Sixth Form boys glanced at each other; at John; at the gross, spotted face of Beaumont-Greene. Then the senior said coldly--

"I suppose you have no objection, Beaumont-Greene, to promising Verney or any one else that you will leave young Kinloch alone?"

"I've never laid a finger on the kid," growled the big fellow; but he looked pale and frightened.

"Then you promise--eh?"

"Yes."

"On your word of honour?"

"Yes."

That night John told Fluff with great glee how Beaumont-Greene had been made to "sit up and howl."

FOOTNOTES:

[26] "Jambi"--Iambic verses.

CHAPTER VIII

_Verney Boscobel_

"In honour of all who believe that life was made for friendship."

The immediate result of the incident described in the last chapter was to strengthen the bond between John and Desmond. Desmond had the epic from Fluff, from the Caterpillar, and finally from John himself.

"You bearded that poisonous beast in his den," exclaimed he; "you plotted and planned for the scrimmage; you foresaw what would happen.

Well, you are a corker, Jonathan."

"You'd have thought of something much better."

"Not I," Desmond replied.

Scaife, however, made no remarks. Possibly, because Desmond made too many, singing John's praises behind his back and to his face, in and out of season. This, of course, was indiscreet, and led to hard words and harder feelings. Beaumont-Greene realized that John had tarred and feathered him. The f.a.gs, you may be sure, rubbed the tar in. If Beaumont-Greene threatened to kick an impudent Fourth Form boy, that youngster would bid him be careful.

"If you don't behave yourself," he would say, "I shall have to send Verney to your room."

Lovell senior remarked that Beaumont-Greene was a "swine," but that Verney had put on "lift" and must be snubbed. What? A boy who had not been two years in the school _dared_ to take the law into his own hands!

The matter ought to have been laid before the Head of the House.

Accordingly, John found himself, much to his dismay, unpopular with the Olympians. The last month of this term was, in some ways, the most disagreeable he had yet spent at Harrow.

But the gain of Desmond's friendship far outweighed the loss of popularity. John tingled with pleasure when he reflected that he had achieved his ambition to stand between Scaife and Desmond. At the same time, he was uncomfortably aware that Scaife seemed to have climbed high above Desmond, who had stood still. In moments of depression John told himself that he was a makeshift, that Desmond would leave him and join the Demon whenever that splendid young person chose to whistle him up.

Scaife had failed to get his Football Flannels, but he came so near to beating all previous records that the School began to regard him as a "Blood." He was seen arm-in-arm with Lovell, strolling up and down the High Street, and the f.a.gs breathlessly repeated what Desmond had predicted a year ago: the Demon was the coming man. And always, when John and Desmond pa.s.sed him, John thought he could read a derisive triumph upon the Demon's handsome face, an expression which said plainly: "You young fool, don't you know that I'm playing cat and mouse with _you_?"

The three still met twice daily to prepare work. But the moment that was done, Scaife disappeared, leaving John and Desmond together.

"He's playing bridge in Lovell's room," said Desmond.

More facts were gleaned from the Caterpillar, who had joined the bridge-players, but played seldom.

"One draws the line," said he, "at playing for stakes one can't afford to lose. Lovell and the Demon have made it too hot."

"And Warde will make it hotter," said John.

"Not he," replied the Caterpillar. "The Demon is a wonder. Thanks to his brains, detection is impossible. He suggested that Lovell's room should be used. Warde wouldn't dare to burst in upon one of the Sixth. And you ought to see their dodgy arrangements. Lovell has his young brother on guard. I'm hanged if the Demon didn't invent a sort of drill, which they go through with a stop-watch. It's a star performance, I tell you. Young Lovell bolts in. In thirty-five seconds--they have got it down to that--the cards and markers are hidden; and the four of 'em are jawing away about footer."

"All the same," said John, obstinately, "Warde will be too much for 'em."

"Oh, rot!" said the Caterpillar.

The Manor got into the semi-finals of the football matches, and when the School broke up for the Christmas holidays it was generally conceded that the fortunes of the ancient house were mending. In the Manor itself Warde's influence was hardly yet perceptible: only a very few knew that it was diffusing itself, percolating into nooks and crevices undreamed of: the hearts of the Fourth Form, for instance. In Dirty d.i.c.k's time there had been almost universal slackness. In pupil-room Rutford read a book; boys could work or not as they pleased, provided their tutor was not disturbed. Warde, on the other hand, made it a point of honour to work with his pupils. His indefatigable energies, his good humour, his patience, were never so conspicuous as when he was coaching duffers. In other ways he made the boys realize that he was at the Manor for their advantage, not his own. The gardens and park were kept strictly private by Dirty d.i.c.k. Warde threw them open: a favour hardly appreciated in the whiter quarter, but the House admitted that it would be awfully jolly in the summer to lie under the trees far from the "crowd." In a word--a "privilege."

Upon the last Sat.u.r.day, to John's delight, Desmond asked him to spend a week in Eaton Square. John had paid two visits to White Ladies; he was now about to experience something entirely new. White Ladies and Verney Boscobel were typical of the past; they ill.u.s.trated the history of the families who had inhabited them. The great world went to White Ladies to see the pictures and the gardens, the Gobelin tapestries, the d.u.c.h.ess and her guests; but the same world dined in Eaton Square to see Charles Desmond.

During this visit, our John first learned what miracles one individual may accomplish. At White Ladies, he had dimly perceived, as has been said, the duties and responsibilities imposed upon rank and wealth. In Eaton Square he saw more plainly the duties and responsibilities imposed upon a man of great talents. Both Charles Desmond and the Duke of Trent were hard workers, but the labours of the duke seemed to John (and to other wise persons) drab-coloured. Charles Desmond's work, in contrast, presented all the colours of the spectrum. John left White Ladies, thanking his stars that he was not a duke; he came away from Eaton Square filled with the ambition to be Private Secretary to the great Minister. And when Mr. Desmond said to him with his genial smile, "Well, young John, Harry, I hope, will be my secretary, and the crutch of my declining years. But what would you like to be?" John replied fervently, "Oh, sir, I should like to be Harry's understudy."

"Would you?"

And then John saw the face of his kind host change. The smile faded. Mr.

Desmond had taken his answer as John meant it to be taken--seriously. He examined John as if he were already a candidate for office. The piercing eyes probed deep. Then he said slowly, "I should like to have you under me, John. We shall talk of this again, my boy. My own sons----" He paused, sighed, and then laughed, tapping John's cheek with his slender, finely-formed fingers. But he pa.s.sed on without finishing his sentence.

John knew that, of Caesar's brothers, Hugo, the eldest, was Secretary of Legation at Teheran; Bill "devilled" for a famous barrister; Lionel wore her Majesty's livery. Strange that none had elected to serve his own father! Caesar explained later.

"You see," he said, "the dear old governor outshines everybody. Hugo and the others felt that under him they would be in eclipse, for ever and ever--eh?"

"I see," said John, gravely. "Yes, there's something in that. He wants you, Caesar."

"Dear old governor!" the other replied. "Yes--he's keen on that. But I hope to make my own little mark. I'd like to have my name on a bra.s.s tablet in Harrow Chapel; that would be something." His eyes began to glow and sparkle.

Next day, at dinner, Rodney's name cropped up.