FOR THE RED CROSSOf course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory, as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap's credit, and he gets a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly put it, we weren't so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston, whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most extraordinary success.There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don't think any one chap could take the credit. It was too big a thing for one chap's mind, and you might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it. It grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became the wonderful thing it was.The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross, and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters whatever. A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power whatever in the masters. The only one who would have been any good in that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift that could lure a paying audience. No doubt they might have tried, but, as Tracey said, you couldn't ask people to pay good money just for the doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying. So it was settled that as there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a backbone to the show. What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone, we didn't ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen before, was worth all the money, if not more.Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help, and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at one time it rather looked as if it might not.It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up, and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations. Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn't have much football that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody's mind--so much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them not one of them should do anything if they didn't buck up.Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who should not. That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas, strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on appearing. We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their sons do something. Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort, because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster Day, when by a fluke they weren't drowned, and so possessed a passing interest in Merivale.The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many times. The first programme would have taken about three days to get through, and Tracey said, as it wasn't a Wagner Cycle, we'd better try and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also. And if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the first.I am Thwaites, by the way, and, like Percy minor, I hope that I may go on the stage some day, being much inclined to do so. But his father is a professional actor, and so he has a better chance than me, mine being a Government official in London, who never goes to the theatre, always being too tired to do anything after his day's work. I recite when I get the chance, and have already acted several times; I also write poems. I did not push myself forward in the least, it was agreed, by a sort of general understanding, except in the mind of Percy minor, that I should play Shylock in the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice." And Williams, who is pretty, and had many a time been rotted for his girl-like eyes and eyelashes, now found that his hour had come, for he was going to play Portia; and we hoped his beautiful appearance might carry him through, though at rehearsal it was only too apparent his acting would not.The first part of the show was to end with the Shakespearean impersonation; but this was not all, though, of course, the cream of the night. We had in the second half an original satire in one act written by Tracey, and entitled "The White Feather." This would be the concluding item, and as we finally decided that we would have twelve separate items, that left ten to find.There were some obvious things, like Percy minimus, who had a ripping voice, and was accustomed to singing both in and out of chapel. So, knowing he was considered class, we put him down for a song; and the school glee singers were also rather well thought of, and we gave them two items. This only left seven performances, and after we had subtracted most of the chaps who were going to perform in the plays, there was still an immense amount of mixed ability to choose from.Of course, Rice had to be in it, though, in his usual sporting way, he said he could do nothing. But as he was the best boxer in the school, and almost as good as a professional "fly" weight, we felt no show would be complete without him, and it was arranged he should box three exhibition rounds with Bassett.As Briggs said, with people who pay money, you must give everybody something they will like; and though the people who would come to see Shakespeare acted might not be at all the same people who would come to see Rice hammer Bassett, yet there it was--we didn't want to disappoint anybody, because the great thing with a successful entertainment is to make everybody thoroughly feel that they have had their money's worth, as Mitchell pointed out. He was going to take the money, and sit in the box and give out the tickets. He could have done other things, but chose that himself, having great natural ability in everything of a financial sort. And as all the tickets were numbered, we felt it was safe. Besides, for the Red Cross, nobody would let his financial ability lead him astray, so to speak.Percy minor, the son of the famous professional actor, also wished to play Shylock, but was put down for a comic song--an art in which he excelled. And Tracey wanted to write it for him and make it topical; but we knew Tracey's satire, and felt it would not do. Besides, he'd already written a whole play, as it was, and was performing the chief part in it, so we let Percy minor choose his own song, and he chose one of Albert Chevalier's, which blended pathos and humour in a very wonderful way, but was difficult. This left five items, and it seemed almost a shame to leave out so much talent; but we finally decided on Abbott for a conjuring entertainment--him being a flyer at that art--and on Nicholas, who has the great gift of lightning calculation, though, strange to say, a fool in everything else. He stands with his back to a blackboard, and can divide or add in his head; and if you read him out ten figures, and then ten more to subtract from them, he can do it in a moment. And no doubt he will make his living in this way, though it is a science that is utterly useless in the world at large.Allowing for Cornwallis and Towler, there were only two items left, and I had the good luck to remember there was, so far, nothing about the Red Cross in the whole show; so we asked Fortescue if he would allow a recitation of his famous poem on that subject, and he consented if he was allowed to coach the boy who did it. We gladly agreed to this, and Forrester was decided upon for the boy, though he would rather have given his well known and remarkable imitations of natural sounds, such as a cock crowing, or a bottle of ginger beer popping, or a man with a cold in his head, or a distant military band. It was decided, therefore, that if Forrester got an encore, he might give the imitations; but he didn't, so they were unfortunately lost, though many a paying audience would have liked them better than the recitation, splendid as it was.For the last item of all it was almost impossible to choose between about ten chaps, and at last, after voting in secret several times, the Sixth got it down to young Hastings, who could play the fiddle in a manner seldom heard from a kid of nine years old, and Weston, who was prepared to black his face and play his banjo. Finally we decided for Weston, because he was the eldest, and would be leaving next term but one, whereas Hastings, being only nine, was bound to have many future chances of appearing with his fiddle.So that was the programme, and even when drawn out and written down, it was pretty staggering, but when actually printed in regular programme form, it was wonderful, and for my part I didn't see how the big schoolroom would hold half the people who were bound to come. In fact, I suggested giving two, or even three, performances on consecutive nights, but this was not approved of.Being, as you may say, historical, I will here insert the programme. The price was threepence, or what you liked to give above that sum. Many gave more; some got copies for nothing, owing to the programme kids losing their heads about change. It appeared in this way on pink paper, faintly scented, and nothing was charged for the scenting by the printers, so I suppose the scent was their contribution to the Red Cross Fund.FOR THE RED CROSSOn the seventeenth day of December next, by kind permission of Dr. Dunston, the scholars of Merivale will give the following entertainment in the Great Hall of Merivale School at 7.30 p.m. Doors open at seven o'clock. But reserved seats may be booked, and a plan of the room seen at Messrs. Tomson's, No. 4, High Street, Merivale.THE PROGRAMME1. Song by Percy Minimus (son of the world-famous actor, Thomas Percy).2. Conjuring by Abbott (using live rabbits, live goldfish, etc.).3. Three Rounds of Exhibition Boxing by Rice (Fly-weight Champion) and Bassett. N.B.--The rounds will be of two minutes' duration.4. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.5. Recitation, "The Cross of Red." Words (published in "The Times" newspaper) by Mr. Fortescue of Merivale School. Reciter, Forrester.6. The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," by William Shakespeare. Dramatis Personæ as follows:Shylock. Thwaites.The Duke. Pegram.Antonio. Saunders.Bassanio. Preston.Gratiano. Percy Minor.Salerio. Travers Minor.Nerissa. Percy Minimus.Portia. Williams.Magnificoes.Tudor, Forbes Minimus, Hastings, and five others.Scene: Venice. A Court of Justice.N.B.--The scene will conclude with the exit of Shylock.An Interval of Ten Minutes.PART II7. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.("The Three Chafers," by request.)8. Comic Song. Percy Minor (son of the great actor, Thomas Percy).9. Lightning calculation. Nicholas (introduced by Thwaites. Must be seen to be believed).10. Coon Interlude with Banjo. Weston.11. Duet. Towler and Cornwallis (both nearly drowned last summer on Foster Day).12. A Satire in One Act by Tracey, entitled "The White Feather."Dramatis Personæ.Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C. Tracey.General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B. Blades.A Policeman. Briggs.Miss Sophia Flapperkin. Williams.Scene: Trafalgar Square. Time: The Present.GOD SAVE THE KING.Booking Office: Mitchell.Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half a crown, there didn't seem much chance of anybody not getting their money's worth.I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the imagination, because we couldn't get within miles of a court in Venice, and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question. And Percy minor said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain; and if people didn't like it, they could do the other thing. So we went back to Elizabethan times. But we had a professional man from Plymouth to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night. Seen close, you're awful, but, of course, it's all right from the front.The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision. But they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine was too long to the last. However, nobody noticed, though naturally they did notice when Antonio's beard carried away, and it spoilt the pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any decent chaps would have.Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went off at Tomson's, and they weren't gone in a moment, by any means. You could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and people put off their booking a good deal. But when the programme was out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day. It was rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going. Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five. This news, we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might have had them for nothing, which was true. The masters all took half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we can." As a matter of fact, we didn't want their wretched applause when the time came, for we got plenty without it.The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black, from next door. He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us, and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything; yet there he was. He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from first to last, and he never clapped once. Yet, extraordinary to say, the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old Black, though the amazing affair didn't come out till next morning.Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring it up to thirty-six. From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost of the programmes and the piano man. It looked as if we should be good for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed. In fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore, after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and most did not hide their surprise.A reporter came fromThe Merivale Trumpetand Mitchell saw that he had plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by reporters, and much depends on it. He ate and drank well, so we naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items, and be perfectly fair about it. I won't pretend everything went off as well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn't come off at all; but, on the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting. And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you expected, it's better than if he doesn't laugh at all. Besides, we had to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn't like a free show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be. Because, when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings; and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh in the wrong places, there's no law against it, and the performers must jolly well stick it as best they can.Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was excellent. In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and dashed on to the platform. So when the audience expected Percy back, instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown behind. It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit. Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an appearance of great ease, but he couldn't manage his voice, and he forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his confusion. The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made him worse. I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts. This fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it in first. It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and defied concealment, so to say. However, Abbott got a lot of trick flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of way. He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed off safely for the goldfish. Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and, thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done. But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards, got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal amused to see it.Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves. A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by the chairs. It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped Bassett's ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams. It was nothing, but evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure. Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but we had to think of Rice's feelings, and we also knew that scores of countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless exhibition bout that wouldn't have shaken a flea. But it was so, and consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered. Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all making up for the great Trial Scene.Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue's fine poem, but nothing special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can't say anything about my rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn't feel I had gripped the audience in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a way, but I didn't mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after that the audience wouldn't take me seriously, though before, I believe, most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes, while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls, and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things as Percy minor's comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn't even tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations themselves, owing to the War, that they weren't specially interested in what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey's play they all came, and such applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair, Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the flapper's expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King" when all was over. For though a professional, and well used to entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing happen with old Black. He looked over the playground wall just before dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something, and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?" And I said I was.Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."My first thought was--what had I done? But as I hadn't had any row with old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing on it."What's this, sir?" I asked."A cheque for the Red Cross," he answered. "A cheque for twenty guineas, to add to the money from your performance last night."He was scowling all the time, mind you, and looking as if he hated the show."I'm sure it's very sporting of you, sir," I said to old Black."Not in the least," he replied. "I laughed more last night than I have laughed for fifty years. And I only paid half a crown--much too little for what I got."I was fearfully amazed."Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I didn't see you laugh once!'"No," he answered, "and more did anyone else. When I laugh, I laugh inside, boy, not outside. So do most wise men. Now be off; and when you next play Shylock, let me know. If I'm alive, I'll come."So I went, and we cheered old Black from the playground. He must have heard us, but he didn't show up.Certainly, taking one thing with another, there are many extraordinary people in the world, and you may be surprised at any moment. No doubt it was one of those cases of coming to scoff and remaining to pray that you hear about, but don't often actually see.THE LAST OF MITCHELLThere is a great deal of difference between being expelled and "invited to find another sphere for your activities." In fact, as my father said, if Dr. Dunston had expelled me, he would certainly have made a row about it, and very likely have written to the newspapers.But old Dunston was a jolly sight too wily for that. He wrote to my father when the event happened, and said that circumstances had come to his ears which made him think, etc., etc., that I had better leave Merivale.I am Mitchell, and my father is a financier, and I may say that this profession embraces a great many branches.Sometimes, after dinner in holidays, he has allowed me to stop and smoke a cigarette while he talked to friends, and so I have got a gradual inkling of what it means to be a financier; and, in a way, this inkling was my downfall. Not that I felt it a downfall really to be hoofed out of Merivale; for it was rather a potty sort of show, and I should have gone to a far more swagger place if my father had been flusher just at the time when I had to go somewhere, owing to a trifling bother at another school.But I went to Merivale, and just because I tried to take advantage of what my father had said about finance and apply it to school life, the difficulties arose.I gathered off and on from my father, when he was in a talkative frame of mind, that one of the great arts of a financier is to do deals between other people.For instance, you have something to sell, and my father knows it. And he routs about and leaves no stone unturned, as they say, until he finds somebody who wants to buy just what you want to sell. Then, having found you a customer, my father arranges all the details of the business, and everybody is satisfied, and my father, for all his time and trouble, gets richly rewarded.Then, again, another fine branch of the financier's art is the floating of public companies. To float a company requires great skill and nerve.The first thing is to find a place a long way off, far beyond the reach of intending shareholders, in fact. Then you discover this far-off country is extraordinarily rich in minerals, or india-rubber, or manure, or some other useful material which everybody wants. You send out a mineral or manure expert to the far-off country, and he is delighted to find these things in enormous quantities, and sees at a glance that, if properly managed, they will produce dividends of very likely a hundred per cent. for the first year, and much more afterwards.Then my father, or whoever it might be, is glad, and he goes about to other skilful men who understand companies, and they collect together and make a board. The more famous financiers there are upon this board the better the public likes it; and so the company is floated, and the public is invited to put in money.This the public is only too thankful to do, because, of course, the thing promises so well; and then the shares are quoted on the Stock Exchange, and the papers are suddenly full of the company some morning, and the board sits and has a champagne luncheon and arranges its salaries and so on.Of course, the people who have found that happy, far-away land, flowing with minerals and manure and such like, are richly rewarded, as they deserve to be; and sometimes they take it in money and sometimes in shares, and sometimes in both.And all may or may not go well; but the financier, whose business it is to do these things and float the company, takes care to come out of it all right in any case--otherwise it is no good being a financier.There was once a very fine company floated by my father and several of his scientific friends, for extracting gold from salt water.It was based on thoroughly sound principles; because science has proved that there is so much gold in every ton of salt water; and, of course, if it is there, it can be extracted by modern inventions. So my father and others of even greater renown were filled with the idea of promoting a company to do this.It was a brilliant and successful company in a way, but did not last long for some reason.They started at a place near Margate, I think, with pumps and tubes to draw in the water, and machinery and professional chemists to get the gold out of it, and a staff of twenty skilled men, who understood the complicated mechanism. And they easily got enough gold from somewhere to make the prospectus, and also enough to make a brooch for the manager's wife; and no doubt they would have got much more in course of time, but something failed--the water in the English Channel was a bit off, or some other natural cause--and my father said it would have been far better for everybody concerned if the works had been put up in the Isle of Skye, or perhaps in Norway, or in the West Indies, or the Fiji Islands, where conditions might have been better suited to success.But gold was none the less made for my father and one or two others, "though not from the sea," as my father said thoughtfully when discussing the winding up of the affair.There is another and even higher branch of the financier's art--the loftiest of all in fact. This consists in floating loans for hard-up monarchs, and it is absolutely the biggest thing the financier does. It wants great skill and delicacy.You can also float loans for hard-up nations if you understand how to do it, but there are hundreds of financiers who never reach these dizzy heights of the profession, just as there are hundreds--you may say millions--of soldiers who never get above being colonels, and thousands of clergymen who fall short of becoming bishops.My father, of course, understood these high branches of his profession, and once even went so far as to be interested in a loan for a South American Republic; but before the thing was matured, one side of the Republic was destroyed by a volcano and the other side by insurgents, who shot the President and all his best friends; and these events so shook investors in general that they would not subscribe to that loan, though the Republic, in its financial extremities, offered fabulous rates of interest.I mention my father at such great length just to show the man he was and to explain my own bent of mind, which lay in the same direction. He said once, in a genial mood, that no man had ever made more bricks without straw than he had. It seemed to me a very dignified and original profession, because you are on your own, so to say, and you go out into the world single-handed, and by simple force of a brilliant imagination and hard work, win to yourself an honourable position. You may even get knighted or baroneted, if your financial genius is crowned with sufficient success to give away a few tons of money to a hospital, or the "party chest," whatever that is.So, understanding all these things fairly well, it was natural that I took the line I did in the affair of Protheroe minimus and young Mayne. And, whatever the Doctor thought, my father didn't see any objection to the operation; and, of course, his opinion was the only one I cared about.It was like this.Young Mayne, though very poor, had a most amazing knack of prize-winning. He was in a class where all the chaps were a year older than him, and yet he always beat them with the greatest ease. He was good all round, and thought nothing of raking in prizes term after term.In fact, it seemed a thousand pities, seeing that he was very poor and the only son of a lawyer's clerk, that his great prize-winning powers were not yielding a better return. For, not to put too fine a point upon it, as they say, the prizes at Merivale were piffle of the deepest dye, and of no money value worth mentioning. Dr. Dunston went on getting the same books term after term, and simply unreadable slush was all you could call them.The few things that were good were all back numbers, like "Robinson Crusoe"--all right in themselves, but nobody wants to read them twice; and then there were school stories that would have made angels weep, especially one called "St. Winifred's," in which boys behaved like girls and blushed if anybody said something dashing. Then there were books about birds and animals and insects, and for the Lower School the Doctor used to sink to "Peter Parley" and the "Peep of Day," and such-like absolute mess of a bygone age.These things were all bound in blue leather and had a gold owl stamped upon them, which was the badge of Merivale.I believe the owl was supposed to be the bird of Athena, and stood for wisdom, or some such rot. Anyhow, it wasn't a bad idea in its way, for a more owlish sort of school than Merivale I never was at.And young Mayne got more of these books than anybody; but to him they were as grass, and he thought nothing of them. Whereas Protheroe minimus had never won a prize in his life, and wanted one fearfully--not for itself, but for the valuable effect it would have on his mother.She was a widow and loved Protheroe minimus best of her three sons. The others had taken prizes and were fair fliers at school; but Protheroe min. was useless except at running. So, woman-like, just because he couldn't get a prize anyhow, his mother was set on his doing so, and promised him rare rewards if he would only work extra hard, or be extra good, or extra something, and so scare up a blue book with a gold owl at any cost.Well, if you have a financial mind, you will see at a glance that here was a possible opportunity. At least, so it looked to me. Because on the one hand was young Mayne, always fearfully hard up and always getting prizes at the end of each term as a matter of course; while on the other hand was Protheroe min., never hard up but never a scholastic success, so to say, from the beginning of the term to the end--and, of course, never even within sight of a prize of any sort.Here it seemed to me was the whole problem of supply and demand in a nutshell; and the financier instinct cried out in me, as it were, that I ought to be up and doing.So I went to young Mayne and said that I thought it was a frightful pity all his great skill was being chucked away, and bringing no return more important than the mournful things that he won as prizes. And he said:"A time will come, Mitchell."And then I told him that a time had come."I know you sell your prizes for a few bob at home, and that you think nothing of them," I said. "But I had a bit of a yarn with that kid Protheroe yesterday, and it seems that what is nothing to you would be a perfect godsend to him. You may not believe it, but his mother, who is a bit dotty on him, has promised him five pounds if he will bring home a prize.""Five pounds!" said Mayne. "The best prize old Dun ever gave wasn't worth five bob.""She doesn't want to sell it--she wants to keep it for the honour and glory of Protheroe min.," I explained. "And the idea in my mind in bringing you chaps together for your mutual advantage was, firstly, that you should let Protheroe have one of your prizes to take home in triumph to his mother; and, secondly, that he should give you a document swearing to let you have two pounds of his five pounds at the beginning of next term."Mayne was much interested at this suggestion, and, knowing that he must be a snip for at least two prizes, if not three, at the end of the summer term, he had no difficulty whatever in falling in with my scheme.We were allowed to walk in the playing-fields on Sunday after chapel before dinner, and then Mayne and Protheroe minimus and myself discussed the details.Funnily enough, they were so full of it between themselves that they did not exactly realize where I came in; so I had to remind Protheroe that it was I who had arranged the supply when I heard about his demand; and I had also to remind him he had certainly said that if anybody could put him in the way of a prize, he would give that person a clear pound at the beginning of next term.I also had to remind Mayne that he had promised me ten shillings on delivery of his two pounds.In fact, before the day was done I got them both to sign documents; because, as I say, when they once got together over it, they seemed rather to forget me. So I explained to them that my part was simply that of a financier, and that many men made their whole living in that way, arranging supplies for demands and bringing capitalists together in a friendly spirit. But not for nothing.They quite saw it, but thought I asked too much. However, I was older than they were, and speedily convinced them that I had not.There was only one difficulty in the way after this, and Protheroe came to me about it, and I helped him over it free of charge. He said:"When I take home the prize, what shall I say it's for? You know what my school reports are like. There's never a loophole for a prize of any kind.""You might say good conduct," I suggested; but Protheroe min. scorned the thought."That would give away the whole show at once," he said. "Because even my mother wouldn't be deceived. It's no good taking back a prize for good conduct when the report will be sure to read as usual--'No attempt at any improvement,' which is how it always goes."Everything I suggested, Protheroe scoffed at in the same way, so I could see the prize would have to be for something not mentioned at all in the school report.Of course, you don't get book prizes for cricket, or footer, or running, which--especially the latter--were the only things that Protheroe min. could have hoped honestly to get a prize for. But I stuck to the problem, and had a very happy idea three nights before the end of the term. I then advised Protheroe to say the prize was for "calisthenics."There are no prizes for calisthenics at Merivale; but it sounded rather a likely subject, especially as he was a dab at it. And, anyway, he thought it would satisfy his mother and be all right.So that was settled, and it only remained for Mayne to get his lawful prizes and hand over the least important to Protheroe min.It all went exceedingly well--at the start--and young Mayne got the prizes and gave Protheroe the second, which was for literature.The thing was composed entirely of poems--Longfellow, or Southey, or some such blighter--and Protheroe said that his mother would fairly revel to think that he had won it. He packed it in his box after "breaking up," and we exchanged our agreements; and it came out, when all was over, that young Mayne was to have two pounds out of Protheroe's five, and I was to have ten bob from Mayne and a pound from Protheroe--thirty shillings in all; and Protheroe would have the prize and two pounds, not to mention other pickings, which would doubtless be given to him by his proud and grateful mother.You might have thought that nothing could go wrong with a sound financial scheme of that sort. I put any amount of time and thought into the transaction, and as it was my first introduction into the world of business, so to speak, and I stood to net a clear thirty shillings, naturally I left no stone unturned, as they say, to make it a brilliant and successful affair.And yet it all went to utter and hopeless smash, though it was no fault of mine.And you certainly couldn't blame Protheroe min. or Mayne either. In fact, Protheroe must have carried it off very well when he got home, and the calisthenics went down all right; and Mayne, when his people asked how it was that he hadn't got more than one prize, was ingenious enough to say that he'd suffered from hay fever all the term and been too off colour to make his usual haul.So everything would have been perfection but for the idiotic and footling behaviour of Protheroe min.'s mother.This excitable and weak-minded woman was not content with just quietly taking the prize and putting it in a glass case with the prizes won in the past by Protheroe's brothers. She must go fluttering about telling his wretched relations what he'd done; and, as if that was not enough, she got altogether above herself and wrote to Dr. Dunston about it. She said how glad and happy it had made her, and that success in the gymnasium was something to begin with, and that she hoped and prayed that it would lead to better things, and that they would live to be proud of Protheroe minimus yet, and such-like truck!Well, the result was a knock-down blow to us all, as you may imagine, and the Doctor showed himself both wily and beastly, as usual. For he merely asked Protheroe's mother to send back the prize at the beginning of the term, as he fancied there might have been some mistake; but he begged her not to mention the matter to Protheroe minimus.So when Protheroe and Mayne and myself all arrived again for the arduous toil of the winter term, and Mayne and I were eager for the financial disimbursements to begin, we heard the shattering news that, at the last moment, Protheroe hadn't got his fiver.It was to have been given to him on the day that he came back to school; but instead his mother had merely told him that she feared there was a little mistake somewhere, and that she couldn't give him his hard-earned cash till Dr. Dunston had cleared the matter up.Needless to say that Dunston did clear it up with all the brutality of which he was capable.As for myself, when the crash came, I hoped it would happen to me as it often does to professional financiers in real life, and that I should escape, as it were. Not, of course, that I had done anything that in fairness made it necessary for me to escape, because to take advantage of supply and demand is a natural law of self-preservation, and everybody does it as a matter of course, not only financiers.But, much to my annoyance, the common-sense view of the thing was not taken, and I found myself "in the cart," as they say, with young Mayne and Protheroe minimus.The Doctor, on examining Protheroe's prize for calisthenics, instantly perceived that it was in reality young Mayne's prize for literature. But evidently anything like strategy of this kind was very distasteful to the Doctor. In fact, he took a prejudiced view from the first, and as young Mayne was only eleven and Protheroe min. merely ten and a half, it instantly jumped to Dunston's hateful and suspicious mind that somebody must have helped them in what he called a "nefarious project." And, by dint of some very unmanly cross-questioning, he got my name out of Mayne.I never blamed Mayne; in fact, I quite believed him when he swore that it only slipped out under the treacherous questions of the Doctor; but the result was, of course, unsatisfactory in every way for me.I was immediately sent for, and had no course open to me but to explain the whole nature of financial operations to Dr. Dunston, and try to make him see that I had simply fallen in with the iron laws of supply and demand.Needless to say, I failed, for he was in one of his fiery and snorting conditions and above all appeal to reason."It was an ordinary sort of transaction, sir," I said, "and I don't see that anybody was hurt by it. In fact, everybody was pleased, including Mrs. Protheroe."This made him simply foam at the mouth.I had never been what you may call a great success with him, and now to hear sound business views from one still at the early age of sixteen, fairly shook him up.He ordered me to go back to my class, and when I had gone, he flogged young Mayne and Protheroe minimus. He then forgave them and told them to go and sin no more; and the same day, doubtless after the old fool had cooled down a bit, he wrote to my father and put the case before him--though not quite fairly--and said that, apparently, I had no moral sense, and a lot of other insulting and vulgar things. In conclusion, he asked my father to remove me, that I might find another sphere for my activities.And my father did.He never took my view of the matter exactly; but he certainly did not take Dr. Dunston's view either. He seemed to be more amused than anything, and was by no means in such a wax with Dr. Dunston as I should have expected.He said that the scholastic point of view was rather stuffy and lacked humour; and then he explained that I had certainly not acted quite on the straight, but had been a "deceitful and cunning little bounder."I was a good deal hurt at this view, and when he found a billet for me in the firm of Messrs. Martin & Moss, Stock Brokers, I felt very glad indeed to go into it and shake off the dust of school from my feet, as they say.It is a good and a busy firm, and I have been here a fortnight now. Ten days ago, happening to pass Mr. Martin's door, and catching my name, I naturally stood and listened and heard an old clerk tell Mr. Martin that I was taking to the work like a duck takes to water.I am writing this account of the business at Merivale on sheets of the best correspondence paper of Messrs. Martin & Moss!They would not like it if they knew.But they won't know.
FOR THE RED CROSS
Of course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.
Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory, as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap's credit, and he gets a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly put it, we weren't so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston, whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most extraordinary success.
There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don't think any one chap could take the credit. It was too big a thing for one chap's mind, and you might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it. It grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became the wonderful thing it was.
The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross, and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters whatever. A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power whatever in the masters. The only one who would have been any good in that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift that could lure a paying audience. No doubt they might have tried, but, as Tracey said, you couldn't ask people to pay good money just for the doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying. So it was settled that as there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a backbone to the show. What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone, we didn't ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen before, was worth all the money, if not more.
Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help, and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at one time it rather looked as if it might not.
It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up, and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations. Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn't have much football that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody's mind--so much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.
So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them not one of them should do anything if they didn't buck up.
Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who should not. That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas, strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on appearing. We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their sons do something. Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort, because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.
So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster Day, when by a fluke they weren't drowned, and so possessed a passing interest in Merivale.
The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many times. The first programme would have taken about three days to get through, and Tracey said, as it wasn't a Wagner Cycle, we'd better try and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also. And if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the first.
I am Thwaites, by the way, and, like Percy minor, I hope that I may go on the stage some day, being much inclined to do so. But his father is a professional actor, and so he has a better chance than me, mine being a Government official in London, who never goes to the theatre, always being too tired to do anything after his day's work. I recite when I get the chance, and have already acted several times; I also write poems. I did not push myself forward in the least, it was agreed, by a sort of general understanding, except in the mind of Percy minor, that I should play Shylock in the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice." And Williams, who is pretty, and had many a time been rotted for his girl-like eyes and eyelashes, now found that his hour had come, for he was going to play Portia; and we hoped his beautiful appearance might carry him through, though at rehearsal it was only too apparent his acting would not.
The first part of the show was to end with the Shakespearean impersonation; but this was not all, though, of course, the cream of the night. We had in the second half an original satire in one act written by Tracey, and entitled "The White Feather." This would be the concluding item, and as we finally decided that we would have twelve separate items, that left ten to find.
There were some obvious things, like Percy minimus, who had a ripping voice, and was accustomed to singing both in and out of chapel. So, knowing he was considered class, we put him down for a song; and the school glee singers were also rather well thought of, and we gave them two items. This only left seven performances, and after we had subtracted most of the chaps who were going to perform in the plays, there was still an immense amount of mixed ability to choose from.
Of course, Rice had to be in it, though, in his usual sporting way, he said he could do nothing. But as he was the best boxer in the school, and almost as good as a professional "fly" weight, we felt no show would be complete without him, and it was arranged he should box three exhibition rounds with Bassett.
As Briggs said, with people who pay money, you must give everybody something they will like; and though the people who would come to see Shakespeare acted might not be at all the same people who would come to see Rice hammer Bassett, yet there it was--we didn't want to disappoint anybody, because the great thing with a successful entertainment is to make everybody thoroughly feel that they have had their money's worth, as Mitchell pointed out. He was going to take the money, and sit in the box and give out the tickets. He could have done other things, but chose that himself, having great natural ability in everything of a financial sort. And as all the tickets were numbered, we felt it was safe. Besides, for the Red Cross, nobody would let his financial ability lead him astray, so to speak.
Percy minor, the son of the famous professional actor, also wished to play Shylock, but was put down for a comic song--an art in which he excelled. And Tracey wanted to write it for him and make it topical; but we knew Tracey's satire, and felt it would not do. Besides, he'd already written a whole play, as it was, and was performing the chief part in it, so we let Percy minor choose his own song, and he chose one of Albert Chevalier's, which blended pathos and humour in a very wonderful way, but was difficult. This left five items, and it seemed almost a shame to leave out so much talent; but we finally decided on Abbott for a conjuring entertainment--him being a flyer at that art--and on Nicholas, who has the great gift of lightning calculation, though, strange to say, a fool in everything else. He stands with his back to a blackboard, and can divide or add in his head; and if you read him out ten figures, and then ten more to subtract from them, he can do it in a moment. And no doubt he will make his living in this way, though it is a science that is utterly useless in the world at large.
Allowing for Cornwallis and Towler, there were only two items left, and I had the good luck to remember there was, so far, nothing about the Red Cross in the whole show; so we asked Fortescue if he would allow a recitation of his famous poem on that subject, and he consented if he was allowed to coach the boy who did it. We gladly agreed to this, and Forrester was decided upon for the boy, though he would rather have given his well known and remarkable imitations of natural sounds, such as a cock crowing, or a bottle of ginger beer popping, or a man with a cold in his head, or a distant military band. It was decided, therefore, that if Forrester got an encore, he might give the imitations; but he didn't, so they were unfortunately lost, though many a paying audience would have liked them better than the recitation, splendid as it was.
For the last item of all it was almost impossible to choose between about ten chaps, and at last, after voting in secret several times, the Sixth got it down to young Hastings, who could play the fiddle in a manner seldom heard from a kid of nine years old, and Weston, who was prepared to black his face and play his banjo. Finally we decided for Weston, because he was the eldest, and would be leaving next term but one, whereas Hastings, being only nine, was bound to have many future chances of appearing with his fiddle.
So that was the programme, and even when drawn out and written down, it was pretty staggering, but when actually printed in regular programme form, it was wonderful, and for my part I didn't see how the big schoolroom would hold half the people who were bound to come. In fact, I suggested giving two, or even three, performances on consecutive nights, but this was not approved of.
Being, as you may say, historical, I will here insert the programme. The price was threepence, or what you liked to give above that sum. Many gave more; some got copies for nothing, owing to the programme kids losing their heads about change. It appeared in this way on pink paper, faintly scented, and nothing was charged for the scenting by the printers, so I suppose the scent was their contribution to the Red Cross Fund.
FOR THE RED CROSS
On the seventeenth day of December next, by kind permission of Dr. Dunston, the scholars of Merivale will give the following entertainment in the Great Hall of Merivale School at 7.30 p.m. Doors open at seven o'clock. But reserved seats may be booked, and a plan of the room seen at Messrs. Tomson's, No. 4, High Street, Merivale.
THE PROGRAMME
1. Song by Percy Minimus (son of the world-famous actor, Thomas Percy).
2. Conjuring by Abbott (using live rabbits, live goldfish, etc.).
3. Three Rounds of Exhibition Boxing by Rice (Fly-weight Champion) and Bassett. N.B.--The rounds will be of two minutes' duration.
4. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.
5. Recitation, "The Cross of Red." Words (published in "The Times" newspaper) by Mr. Fortescue of Merivale School. Reciter, Forrester.
6. The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," by William Shakespeare. Dramatis Personæ as follows:
Shylock. Thwaites.The Duke. Pegram.Antonio. Saunders.Bassanio. Preston.Gratiano. Percy Minor.Salerio. Travers Minor.Nerissa. Percy Minimus.Portia. Williams.
Magnificoes.Tudor, Forbes Minimus, Hastings, and five others.Scene: Venice. A Court of Justice.
N.B.--The scene will conclude with the exit of Shylock.
An Interval of Ten Minutes.
PART II
7. Glee Singing by the School Glee Singers.
("The Three Chafers," by request.)
8. Comic Song. Percy Minor (son of the great actor, Thomas Percy).
9. Lightning calculation. Nicholas (introduced by Thwaites. Must be seen to be believed).
10. Coon Interlude with Banjo. Weston.
11. Duet. Towler and Cornwallis (both nearly drowned last summer on Foster Day).
12. A Satire in One Act by Tracey, entitled "The White Feather."
Dramatis Personæ.
Captain Harold Vansittart Maltravers, V.C. Tracey.General Sir Henry Champernowne, K.C.B. Blades.A Policeman. Briggs.Miss Sophia Flapperkin. Williams.
Scene: Trafalgar Square. Time: The Present.
GOD SAVE THE KING.Booking Office: Mitchell.
Well, that was the programme, and, seeing the front seats were only half a crown, there didn't seem much chance of anybody not getting their money's worth.
I could say a great deal about the rehearsals, which were very difficult, owing to the question of scenery; and finally, after many suggestions, we decided merely to have wings, and leave the rest to the imagination, because we couldn't get within miles of a court in Venice, and Trafalgar Square was equally out of the question. And Percy minor said that really classy stage managers, like Granville Barker, relied less and less on scenery, and that the very highest art was to go back to Elizabethan times, and just stick up what the scene was on a curtain; and if people didn't like it, they could do the other thing. So we went back to Elizabethan times. But we had a professional man from Plymouth to make us up for Shakespeare, and he did it professionally, and we were rather dazzled ourselves at what we looked like on the night. Seen close, you're awful, but, of course, it's all right from the front.
The dresses for Shakespeare were also professional, and we had help, for without the matron and Nelly Dunston and Minnie Dunston, and a maid or two, the dresses would not have fitted, and so caused derision. But they did well, and we looked very realistic, though my Jewish gaberdine was too long to the last. However, nobody noticed, though naturally they did notice when Antonio's beard carried away, and it spoilt the pathos, because some fools laughed, instead of taking no notice, as any decent chaps would have.
Well, of course, the excitement was to see how the half-crown seats went off at Tomson's, and they weren't gone in a moment, by any means. You could book both half-crowners and eighteen-pennies, which came next, and people put off their booking a good deal. But when the programme was out, the booking improved, and five people booked in one day. It was rather interesting to hear who had booked, and Mitchell was allowed to go to the shop every morning after school to know how things were going. Sir Neville Carew, from the Manor House, took five half-crown seats in the front row, and Dr. Dunston himself took the next five. This news, we greeted with mingled feelings, yet, as Mitchell pointed out, he might have had them for nothing, which was true. The masters all took half-crown seats dotted about the big hall, and when Briggs asked Brown why they had done this, instead of sitting together, Brown said: "To applaud your efforts, Briggs, and suggest a consensus of opinion if we can." As a matter of fact, we didn't want their wretched applause when the time came, for we got plenty without it.
The most sensational person to take a half-crown seat was old Black, from next door. He had always been our greatest enemy, and hated us, and he never gave anything back that went over his wall, and made us pay instantly if we did any damage, or broke a pane of glass, or anything; yet there he was. He sat in the second row, and not a muscle moved from first to last, and he never clapped once. Yet, extraordinary to say, the most remarkable thing about the whole performance had to do with old Black, though the amazing affair didn't come out till next morning.
Mitchell calculated that, if every seat was taken, we should clear thirty-four pounds odd, and he rather hoped the programmes would bring it up to thirty-six. From that, however, had to be subtracted the cost of the dresses and the professional man from Plymouth, and also the cost of the programmes and the piano man. It looked as if we should be good for a clear thirty pounds; but only if the house was full.
Happy to relate, it was, and many people who did not book at all, came and took their tickets at the door, and the one bob part was packed. In fact, a good many stood all through, including those interested in Merivale in humble ways, such as the tuck-woman and the ground-man and the drill-sergeant, and many other such-like people. When, therefore, after the interval for refreshments, Dr. Dunston got up and said we had taken thirty-seven pounds four shillings, there was great cheering, and most did not hide their surprise.
A reporter came fromThe Merivale Trumpetand Mitchell saw that he had plenty of refreshments for nothing, because this is expected by reporters, and much depends on it. He ate and drank well, so we naturally hoped for a column or two about the show; but the cur wrote a most feeble account in three inches of type, and gave all the praise to Dr. Dunston, so I need not repeat what he said.
The truth was as follows, and I shall take the programme by its items, and be perfectly fair about it. I won't pretend everything went off as well as we hoped, and some of the chaps didn't come off at all; but, on the other hand, many did, and the failures also got a friendly greeting. And even if you make a person laugh quite differently from what you expected, it's better than if he doesn't laugh at all. Besides, we had to remember that everybody had paid solid cash, so it wasn't like a free show, where people have got to be pleased, or pretend to be. Because, when you have paid your money, you are free to display your feelings; and if people in a paying audience are such utter bounders as to laugh in the wrong places, there's no law against it, and the performers must jolly well stick it as best they can.
Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was excellent. In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and dashed on to the platform. So when the audience expected Percy back, instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown behind. It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit. Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an appearance of great ease, but he couldn't manage his voice, and he forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his confusion. The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made him worse. I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.
He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts. This fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it in first. It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and defied concealment, so to say. However, Abbott got a lot of trick flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of way. He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed off safely for the goldfish. Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and, thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done. But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards, got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal amused to see it.
Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves. A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by the chairs. It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped Bassett's ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams. It was nothing, but evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure. Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but we had to think of Rice's feelings, and we also knew that scores of countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless exhibition bout that wouldn't have shaken a flea. But it was so, and consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered. Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all making up for the great Trial Scene.
Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue's fine poem, but nothing special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.
Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can't say anything about my rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn't feel I had gripped the audience in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a way, but I didn't mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after that the audience wouldn't take me seriously, though before, I believe, most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes, while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls, and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things as Percy minor's comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn't even tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations themselves, owing to the War, that they weren't specially interested in what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey's play they all came, and such applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair, Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the flapper's expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.
The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King" when all was over. For though a professional, and well used to entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.
Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing happen with old Black. He looked over the playground wall just before dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something, and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?" And I said I was.
Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."
My first thought was--what had I done? But as I hadn't had any row with old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing on it.
"What's this, sir?" I asked.
"A cheque for the Red Cross," he answered. "A cheque for twenty guineas, to add to the money from your performance last night."
He was scowling all the time, mind you, and looking as if he hated the show.
"I'm sure it's very sporting of you, sir," I said to old Black.
"Not in the least," he replied. "I laughed more last night than I have laughed for fifty years. And I only paid half a crown--much too little for what I got."
I was fearfully amazed.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I didn't see you laugh once!'
"No," he answered, "and more did anyone else. When I laugh, I laugh inside, boy, not outside. So do most wise men. Now be off; and when you next play Shylock, let me know. If I'm alive, I'll come."
So I went, and we cheered old Black from the playground. He must have heard us, but he didn't show up.
Certainly, taking one thing with another, there are many extraordinary people in the world, and you may be surprised at any moment. No doubt it was one of those cases of coming to scoff and remaining to pray that you hear about, but don't often actually see.
THE LAST OF MITCHELL
There is a great deal of difference between being expelled and "invited to find another sphere for your activities." In fact, as my father said, if Dr. Dunston had expelled me, he would certainly have made a row about it, and very likely have written to the newspapers.
But old Dunston was a jolly sight too wily for that. He wrote to my father when the event happened, and said that circumstances had come to his ears which made him think, etc., etc., that I had better leave Merivale.
I am Mitchell, and my father is a financier, and I may say that this profession embraces a great many branches.
Sometimes, after dinner in holidays, he has allowed me to stop and smoke a cigarette while he talked to friends, and so I have got a gradual inkling of what it means to be a financier; and, in a way, this inkling was my downfall. Not that I felt it a downfall really to be hoofed out of Merivale; for it was rather a potty sort of show, and I should have gone to a far more swagger place if my father had been flusher just at the time when I had to go somewhere, owing to a trifling bother at another school.
But I went to Merivale, and just because I tried to take advantage of what my father had said about finance and apply it to school life, the difficulties arose.
I gathered off and on from my father, when he was in a talkative frame of mind, that one of the great arts of a financier is to do deals between other people.
For instance, you have something to sell, and my father knows it. And he routs about and leaves no stone unturned, as they say, until he finds somebody who wants to buy just what you want to sell. Then, having found you a customer, my father arranges all the details of the business, and everybody is satisfied, and my father, for all his time and trouble, gets richly rewarded.
Then, again, another fine branch of the financier's art is the floating of public companies. To float a company requires great skill and nerve.
The first thing is to find a place a long way off, far beyond the reach of intending shareholders, in fact. Then you discover this far-off country is extraordinarily rich in minerals, or india-rubber, or manure, or some other useful material which everybody wants. You send out a mineral or manure expert to the far-off country, and he is delighted to find these things in enormous quantities, and sees at a glance that, if properly managed, they will produce dividends of very likely a hundred per cent. for the first year, and much more afterwards.
Then my father, or whoever it might be, is glad, and he goes about to other skilful men who understand companies, and they collect together and make a board. The more famous financiers there are upon this board the better the public likes it; and so the company is floated, and the public is invited to put in money.
This the public is only too thankful to do, because, of course, the thing promises so well; and then the shares are quoted on the Stock Exchange, and the papers are suddenly full of the company some morning, and the board sits and has a champagne luncheon and arranges its salaries and so on.
Of course, the people who have found that happy, far-away land, flowing with minerals and manure and such like, are richly rewarded, as they deserve to be; and sometimes they take it in money and sometimes in shares, and sometimes in both.
And all may or may not go well; but the financier, whose business it is to do these things and float the company, takes care to come out of it all right in any case--otherwise it is no good being a financier.
There was once a very fine company floated by my father and several of his scientific friends, for extracting gold from salt water.
It was based on thoroughly sound principles; because science has proved that there is so much gold in every ton of salt water; and, of course, if it is there, it can be extracted by modern inventions. So my father and others of even greater renown were filled with the idea of promoting a company to do this.
It was a brilliant and successful company in a way, but did not last long for some reason.
They started at a place near Margate, I think, with pumps and tubes to draw in the water, and machinery and professional chemists to get the gold out of it, and a staff of twenty skilled men, who understood the complicated mechanism. And they easily got enough gold from somewhere to make the prospectus, and also enough to make a brooch for the manager's wife; and no doubt they would have got much more in course of time, but something failed--the water in the English Channel was a bit off, or some other natural cause--and my father said it would have been far better for everybody concerned if the works had been put up in the Isle of Skye, or perhaps in Norway, or in the West Indies, or the Fiji Islands, where conditions might have been better suited to success.
But gold was none the less made for my father and one or two others, "though not from the sea," as my father said thoughtfully when discussing the winding up of the affair.
There is another and even higher branch of the financier's art--the loftiest of all in fact. This consists in floating loans for hard-up monarchs, and it is absolutely the biggest thing the financier does. It wants great skill and delicacy.
You can also float loans for hard-up nations if you understand how to do it, but there are hundreds of financiers who never reach these dizzy heights of the profession, just as there are hundreds--you may say millions--of soldiers who never get above being colonels, and thousands of clergymen who fall short of becoming bishops.
My father, of course, understood these high branches of his profession, and once even went so far as to be interested in a loan for a South American Republic; but before the thing was matured, one side of the Republic was destroyed by a volcano and the other side by insurgents, who shot the President and all his best friends; and these events so shook investors in general that they would not subscribe to that loan, though the Republic, in its financial extremities, offered fabulous rates of interest.
I mention my father at such great length just to show the man he was and to explain my own bent of mind, which lay in the same direction. He said once, in a genial mood, that no man had ever made more bricks without straw than he had. It seemed to me a very dignified and original profession, because you are on your own, so to say, and you go out into the world single-handed, and by simple force of a brilliant imagination and hard work, win to yourself an honourable position. You may even get knighted or baroneted, if your financial genius is crowned with sufficient success to give away a few tons of money to a hospital, or the "party chest," whatever that is.
So, understanding all these things fairly well, it was natural that I took the line I did in the affair of Protheroe minimus and young Mayne. And, whatever the Doctor thought, my father didn't see any objection to the operation; and, of course, his opinion was the only one I cared about.
It was like this.
Young Mayne, though very poor, had a most amazing knack of prize-winning. He was in a class where all the chaps were a year older than him, and yet he always beat them with the greatest ease. He was good all round, and thought nothing of raking in prizes term after term.
In fact, it seemed a thousand pities, seeing that he was very poor and the only son of a lawyer's clerk, that his great prize-winning powers were not yielding a better return. For, not to put too fine a point upon it, as they say, the prizes at Merivale were piffle of the deepest dye, and of no money value worth mentioning. Dr. Dunston went on getting the same books term after term, and simply unreadable slush was all you could call them.
The few things that were good were all back numbers, like "Robinson Crusoe"--all right in themselves, but nobody wants to read them twice; and then there were school stories that would have made angels weep, especially one called "St. Winifred's," in which boys behaved like girls and blushed if anybody said something dashing. Then there were books about birds and animals and insects, and for the Lower School the Doctor used to sink to "Peter Parley" and the "Peep of Day," and such-like absolute mess of a bygone age.
These things were all bound in blue leather and had a gold owl stamped upon them, which was the badge of Merivale.
I believe the owl was supposed to be the bird of Athena, and stood for wisdom, or some such rot. Anyhow, it wasn't a bad idea in its way, for a more owlish sort of school than Merivale I never was at.
And young Mayne got more of these books than anybody; but to him they were as grass, and he thought nothing of them. Whereas Protheroe minimus had never won a prize in his life, and wanted one fearfully--not for itself, but for the valuable effect it would have on his mother.
She was a widow and loved Protheroe minimus best of her three sons. The others had taken prizes and were fair fliers at school; but Protheroe min. was useless except at running. So, woman-like, just because he couldn't get a prize anyhow, his mother was set on his doing so, and promised him rare rewards if he would only work extra hard, or be extra good, or extra something, and so scare up a blue book with a gold owl at any cost.
Well, if you have a financial mind, you will see at a glance that here was a possible opportunity. At least, so it looked to me. Because on the one hand was young Mayne, always fearfully hard up and always getting prizes at the end of each term as a matter of course; while on the other hand was Protheroe min., never hard up but never a scholastic success, so to say, from the beginning of the term to the end--and, of course, never even within sight of a prize of any sort.
Here it seemed to me was the whole problem of supply and demand in a nutshell; and the financier instinct cried out in me, as it were, that I ought to be up and doing.
So I went to young Mayne and said that I thought it was a frightful pity all his great skill was being chucked away, and bringing no return more important than the mournful things that he won as prizes. And he said:
"A time will come, Mitchell."
And then I told him that a time had come.
"I know you sell your prizes for a few bob at home, and that you think nothing of them," I said. "But I had a bit of a yarn with that kid Protheroe yesterday, and it seems that what is nothing to you would be a perfect godsend to him. You may not believe it, but his mother, who is a bit dotty on him, has promised him five pounds if he will bring home a prize."
"Five pounds!" said Mayne. "The best prize old Dun ever gave wasn't worth five bob."
"She doesn't want to sell it--she wants to keep it for the honour and glory of Protheroe min.," I explained. "And the idea in my mind in bringing you chaps together for your mutual advantage was, firstly, that you should let Protheroe have one of your prizes to take home in triumph to his mother; and, secondly, that he should give you a document swearing to let you have two pounds of his five pounds at the beginning of next term."
Mayne was much interested at this suggestion, and, knowing that he must be a snip for at least two prizes, if not three, at the end of the summer term, he had no difficulty whatever in falling in with my scheme.
We were allowed to walk in the playing-fields on Sunday after chapel before dinner, and then Mayne and Protheroe minimus and myself discussed the details.
Funnily enough, they were so full of it between themselves that they did not exactly realize where I came in; so I had to remind Protheroe that it was I who had arranged the supply when I heard about his demand; and I had also to remind him he had certainly said that if anybody could put him in the way of a prize, he would give that person a clear pound at the beginning of next term.
I also had to remind Mayne that he had promised me ten shillings on delivery of his two pounds.
In fact, before the day was done I got them both to sign documents; because, as I say, when they once got together over it, they seemed rather to forget me. So I explained to them that my part was simply that of a financier, and that many men made their whole living in that way, arranging supplies for demands and bringing capitalists together in a friendly spirit. But not for nothing.
They quite saw it, but thought I asked too much. However, I was older than they were, and speedily convinced them that I had not.
There was only one difficulty in the way after this, and Protheroe came to me about it, and I helped him over it free of charge. He said:
"When I take home the prize, what shall I say it's for? You know what my school reports are like. There's never a loophole for a prize of any kind."
"You might say good conduct," I suggested; but Protheroe min. scorned the thought.
"That would give away the whole show at once," he said. "Because even my mother wouldn't be deceived. It's no good taking back a prize for good conduct when the report will be sure to read as usual--'No attempt at any improvement,' which is how it always goes."
Everything I suggested, Protheroe scoffed at in the same way, so I could see the prize would have to be for something not mentioned at all in the school report.
Of course, you don't get book prizes for cricket, or footer, or running, which--especially the latter--were the only things that Protheroe min. could have hoped honestly to get a prize for. But I stuck to the problem, and had a very happy idea three nights before the end of the term. I then advised Protheroe to say the prize was for "calisthenics."
There are no prizes for calisthenics at Merivale; but it sounded rather a likely subject, especially as he was a dab at it. And, anyway, he thought it would satisfy his mother and be all right.
So that was settled, and it only remained for Mayne to get his lawful prizes and hand over the least important to Protheroe min.
It all went exceedingly well--at the start--and young Mayne got the prizes and gave Protheroe the second, which was for literature.
The thing was composed entirely of poems--Longfellow, or Southey, or some such blighter--and Protheroe said that his mother would fairly revel to think that he had won it. He packed it in his box after "breaking up," and we exchanged our agreements; and it came out, when all was over, that young Mayne was to have two pounds out of Protheroe's five, and I was to have ten bob from Mayne and a pound from Protheroe--thirty shillings in all; and Protheroe would have the prize and two pounds, not to mention other pickings, which would doubtless be given to him by his proud and grateful mother.
You might have thought that nothing could go wrong with a sound financial scheme of that sort. I put any amount of time and thought into the transaction, and as it was my first introduction into the world of business, so to speak, and I stood to net a clear thirty shillings, naturally I left no stone unturned, as they say, to make it a brilliant and successful affair.
And yet it all went to utter and hopeless smash, though it was no fault of mine.
And you certainly couldn't blame Protheroe min. or Mayne either. In fact, Protheroe must have carried it off very well when he got home, and the calisthenics went down all right; and Mayne, when his people asked how it was that he hadn't got more than one prize, was ingenious enough to say that he'd suffered from hay fever all the term and been too off colour to make his usual haul.
So everything would have been perfection but for the idiotic and footling behaviour of Protheroe min.'s mother.
This excitable and weak-minded woman was not content with just quietly taking the prize and putting it in a glass case with the prizes won in the past by Protheroe's brothers. She must go fluttering about telling his wretched relations what he'd done; and, as if that was not enough, she got altogether above herself and wrote to Dr. Dunston about it. She said how glad and happy it had made her, and that success in the gymnasium was something to begin with, and that she hoped and prayed that it would lead to better things, and that they would live to be proud of Protheroe minimus yet, and such-like truck!
Well, the result was a knock-down blow to us all, as you may imagine, and the Doctor showed himself both wily and beastly, as usual. For he merely asked Protheroe's mother to send back the prize at the beginning of the term, as he fancied there might have been some mistake; but he begged her not to mention the matter to Protheroe minimus.
So when Protheroe and Mayne and myself all arrived again for the arduous toil of the winter term, and Mayne and I were eager for the financial disimbursements to begin, we heard the shattering news that, at the last moment, Protheroe hadn't got his fiver.
It was to have been given to him on the day that he came back to school; but instead his mother had merely told him that she feared there was a little mistake somewhere, and that she couldn't give him his hard-earned cash till Dr. Dunston had cleared the matter up.
Needless to say that Dunston did clear it up with all the brutality of which he was capable.
As for myself, when the crash came, I hoped it would happen to me as it often does to professional financiers in real life, and that I should escape, as it were. Not, of course, that I had done anything that in fairness made it necessary for me to escape, because to take advantage of supply and demand is a natural law of self-preservation, and everybody does it as a matter of course, not only financiers.
But, much to my annoyance, the common-sense view of the thing was not taken, and I found myself "in the cart," as they say, with young Mayne and Protheroe minimus.
The Doctor, on examining Protheroe's prize for calisthenics, instantly perceived that it was in reality young Mayne's prize for literature. But evidently anything like strategy of this kind was very distasteful to the Doctor. In fact, he took a prejudiced view from the first, and as young Mayne was only eleven and Protheroe min. merely ten and a half, it instantly jumped to Dunston's hateful and suspicious mind that somebody must have helped them in what he called a "nefarious project." And, by dint of some very unmanly cross-questioning, he got my name out of Mayne.
I never blamed Mayne; in fact, I quite believed him when he swore that it only slipped out under the treacherous questions of the Doctor; but the result was, of course, unsatisfactory in every way for me.
I was immediately sent for, and had no course open to me but to explain the whole nature of financial operations to Dr. Dunston, and try to make him see that I had simply fallen in with the iron laws of supply and demand.
Needless to say, I failed, for he was in one of his fiery and snorting conditions and above all appeal to reason.
"It was an ordinary sort of transaction, sir," I said, "and I don't see that anybody was hurt by it. In fact, everybody was pleased, including Mrs. Protheroe."
This made him simply foam at the mouth.
I had never been what you may call a great success with him, and now to hear sound business views from one still at the early age of sixteen, fairly shook him up.
He ordered me to go back to my class, and when I had gone, he flogged young Mayne and Protheroe minimus. He then forgave them and told them to go and sin no more; and the same day, doubtless after the old fool had cooled down a bit, he wrote to my father and put the case before him--though not quite fairly--and said that, apparently, I had no moral sense, and a lot of other insulting and vulgar things. In conclusion, he asked my father to remove me, that I might find another sphere for my activities.
And my father did.
He never took my view of the matter exactly; but he certainly did not take Dr. Dunston's view either. He seemed to be more amused than anything, and was by no means in such a wax with Dr. Dunston as I should have expected.
He said that the scholastic point of view was rather stuffy and lacked humour; and then he explained that I had certainly not acted quite on the straight, but had been a "deceitful and cunning little bounder."
I was a good deal hurt at this view, and when he found a billet for me in the firm of Messrs. Martin & Moss, Stock Brokers, I felt very glad indeed to go into it and shake off the dust of school from my feet, as they say.
It is a good and a busy firm, and I have been here a fortnight now. Ten days ago, happening to pass Mr. Martin's door, and catching my name, I naturally stood and listened and heard an old clerk tell Mr. Martin that I was taking to the work like a duck takes to water.
I am writing this account of the business at Merivale on sheets of the best correspondence paper of Messrs. Martin & Moss!
They would not like it if they knew.
But they won't know.