Indeed it was time that the corps made some concession to the curiosity of the school. Thrice had the guard been maltreated and thrice had the corps dealt out martial law to the offender. The school raged. What was the use, they asked, of a cadet-corps which none might see? Mr. King congratulated them on their invisible defenders, and they could not parry his thrusts. Foxy was growing sullen and restive. A few of the corps expressed openly doubts as to the wisdom of their course; and the question of uniforms loomed on the near horizon. If these were issued, they would be forced to wear them.
But, as so often happens in this life, the matter was suddenly settled from without.
The Head had duly informed the Council that their recommendation had been acted upon, and that, so far as he could learn, the boys were drilling. He said nothing of the terms on which they drilled. Naturally, General Collinson was delighted and told his friends. One of his friends rejoiced in a friend, a Member of Parliament—a zealous, an intelligent, and, above all, a patriotic person, anxious to do the most good in the shortest possible time. But we cannot answer, alas! for the friends of our friends. If Collinson’s friend had introduced him to the General, the latter would have taken his measure and saved much. But the friend merely spoke of his friend; and since no two people in the world see eye to eye, the picture conveyed to Collinson was inaccurate. Moreover, the man was an M.P., an impeccable Conservative, and the General had the English soldier’s lurking respect for any member of the Court of Last Appeal. He was going down into the West country, to spread light in somebody’s benighted constituency. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if, armed with the General’s recommendation, he, taking the admirable and newly established cadet-corps for his text, spoke a few words—“Just talked to the boys a little—eh? You know the kind of thing that would be acceptable; and he’d be the very man to do it. The sort of talk that boys understand, you know.”
“They didn’t talk to ’em much in my time,” said the General, suspiciously.
“Ah! but times change—with the spread of education and so on. The boys of to-day are the men of to-morrow. An impression in youth is likely to be permanent. And in these times, you know, with the country going to the dogs?”
“You’re quite right.” The island was then entering on five years of Mr. Gladstone’s rule; and the General did not like what he had seen of it. He would certainly write to the Head, for it was beyond question that the boys of to-day made the men of to-morrow. That, if he might say so, was uncommonly well put.
In reply, the Head stated that he should be delighted to welcome Mr. Raymond Martin, M.P., of whom he had heard so much; to put him up for the night, and to allow him to address the school on any subject that he conceived would interest them. If Mr. Martin had not yet faced an audience of this particular class of British youth, the Head had no doubt that he would find it an interesting experience.
“And I don’t think I am very far wrong in that last,” he confided to the Reverend John. “Do you happen to know anything of one Raymond Martin?”
“I was at College with a man of that name,” the chaplain replied. “He was without form and void, so far as I remember, but desperately earnest.”
“He will address the Coll. on ‘Patriotism’ next Saturday.”