In June there came another letter that interested Tony very much.
“Reggie has pulled both the Latin and the Poetry Prizes. Even the Gumshoe thawed a trifle and shook hands with him as he came down from the platform on Prize Day, with a set of Browning in his arms and the Jackson medal in his inside pocket. He’s so blamed clever that he has got a cum laude. Bill beams with pride over him. The President of Kingsbridge, a funny old chap who talks through his nose and has a wit as keen as a razor, made us a bully talk, and the Doctor announced the prefects for next year—curiously enough he said the Head Prefect will not be appointed until the opening of school in September. We all suppose, of course, that that means you, and that it is only postponed until it is certain that you are coming back. The other prefects will be Teddy, Gordon Powel, Doc Thorn, Ned Clavering and myself. I had hoped Kit would be one, but he’s been too independent I guess. It’s a pretty good lot of fellows, I think, though I say it as shouldn’t, and with you at the head, we ought to run things very much as we want to next year....”
Tony had scarcely thought of the Head Prefectship since he had left school. He believed that there were others better fitted for it than himself and who more deserved it. The fact that he was President of the Dealonian made him an obvious candidate, of course; and certainly if the authorities thought him up to the position he would be glad to have it. The possibility from this time on added to the keenness with which he looked forward to his return in September.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HEAD PREFECTSHIP
A warm bright September day at Deal. A golden light from the western sun fell athwart the green fields of the school and cast great shadows upon the beach and the tranquil bay beyond. It had rained the day before, after a long drought, so that the air was fresh and the foliage had taken on a gayer green. The long white Port Road leading down the hill toward Monday Port was dotted with hacks, flies, barges, coming to and returning from the school, each one depositing at the terrace steps a somewhat noisy and merry contingent of boys. They, after greeting the Doctor and Mrs. Forester in the great hall, scattered to their quarters to stow their belongings and compare animated notes with their friends.
From an angle of the Old School, where he was screened from view by a mass of shrubbery, Jacob Finch lay flat on his stomach, his peaked face in his hands, and his thin little legs, half hidden now by long trousers, kicking in the air behind him. Below him, descending terrace by terrace and over the green sloping fields, stretched the wonderful Deal country, so fresh and wind-swept, gleaming in the mellow afternoon light; he looked out over the curving tawny beach, the great sweep of the greenish-brown marshes, the grayish-green of the dunes, the still sheet of opaque water under the ledges of Lovel’s Woods; and beyond the great fan-shaped curves of Strathsey Neck, the rocks, the islands, and at last the boundless expanse of the ocean, blue this afternoon as an Italian lake. It was an afternoon to remember, to feel glad for from a sense of its sheer beauty.
But Finch was totally unconscious of the scene before him. Instead his eyes were fastened with an intent gaze upon the white road and the long driveway that divided the playing-fields. He eagerly scanned each vehicle as it approached and deposited its load at the flight of steps that led up to the principal terrace. Each time an expression of disappointment would settle upon his face, until it was transformed again to eager interest at the approach of another carriage.