Soon after ten, Messrs. Bent, Rankin, and Grady rose to go. Their host escorted them to the door with rather a wan look, for Mr. Tipham, instead of following their example, had just lit a fresh cigarette and dropped into the easy-chair vacated by Mr. Bent.
“Conceited idiot!” said Mr. Bent, when the three men were in the street.
“He has a lot to learn about boys,” added Mr. Grady, with a shake of his head.
“Wants a good scrubbing with soap and water, inside and out,” growled Mr. Rankin. “But,” he added, afterwards, privately to Mr. Grady, “old Bent didn’t get much change out of him.”
As for Mr. Tipham, he continued to smoke cigarettes and instruct his host in the first principles of art till well after midnight.
Among the boys Mr. Tipham was generally regarded as a freak, and his nickname, “The Super-tramp,” could hardly be regarded as flattering. But he had his disciples. Mind at Chiltern was held in little esteem, and, where it existed, uncongenial surroundings were apt to turn it sour. There were generally a few boys in the highest forms (for the most part boys of inferior physique and precocious interests) who were always in a state of latent revolt against a system which left them out of account. They repaid contempt with scorn, and the scorn was all the bitterer because it seldom dared to express itself in words and had to ferment inwardly.
To such boys Mr. Tipham appealed as a breath from a wider world and a champion of intellectual liberty. At the little dinners in his lodgings, at which a wine, which had the alluring title of a petit vin blanc, was followed by liqueurs, tongues were unloosed, and thought, if it was not always particularly clear, was at least delightfully audacious; and the crudest speculation passed for philosophy. Acting on a suggestion from their master, three of the disciples determined to found a school magazine in which Truth should at last find a voice. It must be admitted that the first and only number of “Veritas” which saw the light, though not deficient in schoolboy humour, was unnecessarily personal and occasionally lacking in good taste. It contained obvious allusions to the headmaster, Mr. Grady, and many other members of the staff; but the most regrettable item of all was an imaginary interview, in which, under the transparent pseudonym of “Howler,” Mr. Chowdler was held up to ridicule and contempt.
“Veritas” achieved a sensational but all too brief success. It sold like hot potatoes; but, within six hours of its publication, Mr. Chowdler appeared in the headmaster’s study with thunder on his brow and a copy of the offensive journal in his hand. The venture had been anonymous; but the secret, like most school secrets, had been badly kept, and both the names of the editors and the complicity of Mr. Tipham were matters of common knowledge. Mr. Chowdler demanded that the editors should be made to apologise publicly before the whole school. As for what happened to Mr. Tipham, he did not care, for Mr. Tipham was beneath contempt; but the obvious course was probably the right one. In pressing his demand Mr. Chowdler was careful to explain that he was actuated by no desire for personal revenge; he was thinking only of discipline. At all costs discipline and the decencies of life must be preserved.
Mr. Flaggon was much annoyed by the whole occurrence. He had himself suggested to Mr. Tipham, when appointing him, the idea of stimulating the boys to literary activity; but, needless to say, he had not intended the literary activity to take the form of a lampoon on Mr. Chowdler. However, he deprecated extreme measures and endeavoured to soothe the victim’s ruffled feelings. The unsold copies of “Veritas” were confiscated, and its further publication suppressed. Mr. Tipham, to borrow an expressive French phrase, “had his head washed,” and the editors offered a full but private apology to Mr. Chowdler. But Mr. Chowdler was not satisfied. He maintained that “the empty one” had behaved weakly to the boys and disloyally to himself. “A paltry revenge,” he said, “for my sermon.” Opinion on the staff was divided. Mr. Chase and the moderates thought that, on the whole, justice had been done. Mr. Pounderly and the irreconcilables considered that “poor Chowdler” had been sacrificed. Nearly everybody was agreed that the headmaster was largely to blame; for he and he alone was responsible for appointing a man like Tipham—“the Flaggonette,” as he was facetiously called. Mrs. Chowdler was quite bewildered.
“I cannot understand,” she said, “how anyone can be so wicked and spiteful as to write such things about Harry, for everybody knows that my husband has gone out of his way to be kind and helpful to Mr. Tipham, as indeed he always does to all the new masters. And surely the headmaster must see that, by not supporting Harry and properly punishing the offenders, he will weaken his own position and make himself very unpopular; for the boys worship Harry.”