The average person comes through all right. He is selfish, easy-going, pleasure-loving, absolutely without a conscience, for the simple reason that he never thinks. But he is a jolly good companion; and the Freemasonry of a Public School is amazing. No man who has been through a good school can be an outsider. He may hang round the Empire bar, he may cheat at business; but you can be certain of one thing, he will never let you down. Very few Public School men ever do a mean thing to their friends. And for a system that produces such a spirit there is something to be said after all.
But for the boy with a personality school is very dangerous. Being powerful, he can do nothing by halves; his actions influence not only himself, but many others. On his surroundings during the time of transition from boyhood to manhood depend to a great extent the influence that man will work in the world. He will do whatever he does on a large scale, and people are bound to look at him. He may stand at the head of the procession of progress; he may dash himself to pieces fighting for a worthless cause; and by the splendour of his contest draw many to him. More likely he will be like Byron, a wonderful, irresponsible creature, who at one time plumbed the depths, and at another swept the heavens—a creature irresistibly attractive, because he is irresistibly human. Gordon was a personality. His preparatory school master said of him once: "He will be a great failure or a great success, perhaps both," and it was the truest thing ever said of him. At present the future was very uncertain. During his first year he had been imbibing knowledge from his contemporaries; he had been a spectator; now the time had come for him to take his part in the drama of Fernhurst life. All ignorant he went his way; careless, arrogant and proud.
It must be owned that during this year Gordon was rather an objectionable person. He was very much above himself. For five years he had been tightly held in check, and when freedom at last came he did not quite know how to use it. He was boisterous and noisy; always in the middle of everything. If ever there was a row in the studies, it would be a sure assumption that Caruthers was mixed up in it. Everything combined to give him a slack time.
Ferguson was head of the House. But he took only a casual interest in its welfare.
"My dear Betteridge," he used to say, "if you were aware of the large issues of art and life, you would see that it would be a mere waste of time worrying about such a little thing as discipline in a house. You should widen your intellectual horizon. Read Verlaine and Baudelaire and then see life as it is."
Ferguson was a poet; twice a term the school magazine was enriched with a poem from his pen. His last effort was called Languor, and opened with the line:
"In amber dreams of amorous despair."
"The Bull" had asked someone in his house what the thing meant. To Ferguson that seemed a high compliment. To be incoherent was a great gift. Swinburne often meant very little, and in his heart of hearts Ferguson thought Languor was, on the whole, more melodious than Dolores. But that was, of course, purely a matter of opinion. At any rate, it was a fine composition; and a poet must not dabble in the common intrigues of little minds.
He let the House go its own sweet way; and the House was grateful, and gave Ferguson the reputation of being rather a sport. There were no more weekly orders; no more cleaning of corps clothes. There was at last peace in Jerusalem, and plenteousness within her palaces.
Simonds was captain of the House. He was working hard for a History scholarship, and could not spend much time in looking after House games. There would be tons of time in the Easter term to train on House sides. So he, too, let things slide, and the House lived a happy life. Those who wanted to play footer, played; those who wanted to work, worked; those who wished to do nothing, did nothing. A cheerful philosophy. For a week it worked quite well.