CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON
Knowing Acton's pride—his overwhelming pride—I never expected to see him back at St. Amory's. I expected that he would almost have moved heaven and earth and got himself taken off the school books and gone to complete his education somewhere else rather than come back to the old place where he had had such a signal thrashing. But, of course, he knew jolly well that we four had our tongues tied, and that the knowledge of his defeat was, so to speak, strictly private property; and that is why, I am pretty sure, he turned up again.
He strolled up and down the High, arm-in-arm with Worcester, in high good humour, on the day we returned; but when I turned the corner and came upon him vis-à-vis he gave me a long, level, steady look of hatred, which told me that he had nursed his wrath to keep it warm. His look made me thoughtful. Young Jack Bourne, too, came sailing along—a breezy miniature copy of Phil, his brother—but when he caught sight of his former patron he blushed like a girl and scuttled into the first available yard.
He Gave Me A Long, Steady Look Of Hatred.
He was not particularly anxious to meet Acton, for Phil, in the holidays, had given Jack a pretty correct inkling of Acton's character, and he began to see—in fact, he did see—that Raffles and the shooting and the billiards, and the hocus pocus of "hedging on Grape Shot," and the trip to London, etc., was only one involved, elaborate plot to strike at Phil. Jack now fully realized that he had played a very innocent fly to Acton's consummate spider, and he now, when there wasn't any very pressing necessity, determined to give the spider's parlour a very wide berth indeed. Acton saw Jack's little manoeuvre, and smiled gently. He was genuinely fond of Jack, but young Bourne had served his purpose; and now, thought Acton, philosophically, "Jack looks upon me as a monster of iniquity, and he won't cultivate my acquaintance." And Phil? Well, Phil regarded the incident as "closed," and paid no heed to his enemy's bitter looks, but divided his attention between his books and cricket, keeping, perhaps unnecessarily, a bright outlook upon Master Jack.
Todd had come back to St. Amory's in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had returned after the Perry fiasco. His three weeks' holiday had been no end enjoyable; and now, besides a coin or two in his pocket, he had a clean, crisp note in his purse. As he stepped out of the train at the station, the burly figure of Jim Cotton hove in sight, and an eleven-inch palm clapped Gus on the back.
"Hallo! old man. How goes it?"
"Oh!" said Gus, coughing; "I'm all right, Jim, and your biceps seem in their usual working order."
"They are, Gus. I've got a cab out here; we'll go on together."
"Rather! I must find some one to see to the traps, though."
"I've commandeered young Grim," said Jim, "and he'll see to them."
"Provident beggar! Here you are, Grim. Put mine into Taylor's cart, and here's a shilling for you."
Grim, who felt rather injured at being lagged by Cotton so early in the term, just at the moment, too, when he had caught sight of Wilson staggering along with a heavy hat-box, etc., seized Jim's and Gus's effects. Todd's modest douceur, however, took off the rough edge of his displeasure.
After tea, Cotton and Todd strolled about, and finally came to anchor behind the nets, where some of the Sixth were already at practice.
"Phil Bourne's good for a hundred at Lord's," said Jim, critically, watching Phil's clean, crisp cutting with interest.
"There's Acton out, too."
"Raw," said Jim. "Biffen's beauty has never been taught to hold his bat, that is evident. Footer is more his line, I take it."
"Are you going to have a try for the eleven, Jim, this year?"
"I'll see how things shape. If Phil Bourne gives me the hint that I have a chance, I'll take it, of course."
"Will he give Acton the hint, think you?"
"I shouldn't say so," said Jim, as Acton's stumps waltzed out of the ground for the fourth time. "He can't play slows for toffee."
"Rum affair about the footer cap," said Gus.
"Rather so. But I believe Phil Bourne is as straight as a die. I'm not so sure of Acton, though. I fancy there's something to be explained about the cap. By the way, Gus, are you going to loaf about this term as usual? Taylor's house side really does want bigger fellows than it's got."
"No!" said Gus. "I'm no good at cricket, nor croquet, nor any other game; nor do I really care a song about them. All the same, I'm not going to loaf."
"What is the idea?" said Jim, curiously.
"I'm going to have a shot for the history medal, and I mean to crawl up into the first three in the Fifth."
"And you'll do 'em, Toddy," said Jim, admiringly. "You're not quite such an ass as you once were."
"Well, I'll work evenly and regularly, and, perhaps, pull off one or other of them."
"I go, you know, at midsummer. Then I'm to cram somewhere for the Army. Taylor's been advising a treble dose of mathematics, and I think I'll oblige him this time."
"Taylor's not half a bad fellow," said Gus.
"Oh, you're a monomaniac on that subject, Gus! Once you felt ill if you met Taylor or Corker on your pavement."
Jim Cotton was right. Gus was now a vastly different fellow from the shiftless, lazy, elusive Gus of old; he worked evenly and steadily onward, and, in consequence, his name danced delightfully near the top of the weekly form-lists of the Fifth Form. He, however, did not sap everlastingly, but on half holidays lounged luxuriantly on the school benches, watching the cricket going on in the bright sunshine, or he would take his rod and have an afternoon among the perch in the Lodestone, that apology for a stream. Fishing was Gus's ideal of athleticism; the exercise was gentle, and you sometimes had half a dozen perch for your trouble. Gus argued there was nothing to show for an eight hours' fag at cricket in a broiling sun.