FINCH

One stormy night in the early autumn, two years after the events narrated in the last chapter, a group of masters were sitting in their common-room at Deal School. Supper was just concluded; a cheerful fire burned on the hearth, and the crackling of the flames was a pleasing contrast to the roar of the wind and the dashing of the rain without. Two of the masters were playing chess under the light of a lamp, the others were sitting before the fire, smoking and talking.

“Well,” remarked Beverly, one of the younger men, noted among his colleagues for his readiness to express an opinion upon any subject in the universe, “what do you think of the Head’s latest departure?”

Mr. Roylston pursed his thin close-shaven lips as though he were about to reply, but before doing so he carefully pressed the tobacco into his pipe, and struck a match and applied it. “I don’t know,” he muttered, between the puffs, in rather a high jerky voice, “that it makes very much difference what we think. But I am inclined to characterize it as an arrival rather than a departure.”

“It is certainly very much with us,” commented Gray, with an absent-minded glance into the fire.

“Well, I predict its speedy extinction,” resumed Beverly. “It is difficult for me to conceive how the Doctor can suppose that Finch will ever get on here. Upon my word, did you ever see such an object?”

“Upon my word, I did not,” answered Gray. “But here it certainly is, and in a sense it is bound to get on. I am entrusted with its table manners, if one may speak of what does not exist.”

“I believe that Morris is to have it in his house,” said Roylston, looking over at the chess players.

“It? who? Oh, you are talking about Finch, eh? Queer little duffer, isn’t he?”

“Queer?” murmured Beverly in a tone that spoke volumes of intense pity for the limits of Morris’s vocabulary. “Perhaps you can really tell us something about it, Mr. Morris?”

“Nothing much, I’m afraid,” Morris replied. “The Doctor has some special interest,—he’s a trust, I understand, from a very old friend. It is very much up to us, I fancy, to help make things easy for the poor kid. I shall speak to some of the boys in my house about him, and ask them to go out of their way to be a bit decent.”

“Speedy execution were the more merciful, I should say,” commented Mr. Roylston, taking a comfortable pull at his pipe.

“Nonsense! he’ll make good,” said Morris, a shade of irritation crossing his face, “that is, if we give him half a chance.”

“I don’t precisely see why we should be supposed to give him less or more chance than we give to every boy,” said Beverly, a little pompously. “I am sure we all——”

“We can’t perhaps,” Roylston rejoined, “but doubtless Mr. Morris, who has the advantage of certain confidential relations with the boys of his house which we do not enjoy, probably can.”

“Oh, come, Roylston,” exclaimed Morris, making a bad move in his game with Stenton. “Of course, I shall use my influence with the boys in my house to make things easy for poor Finch. Why should I not?”

“Echo answers ‘why,’” replied Mr. Roylston, somewhat annoyed; and then he added with an air of indulgence, “but be assured, my dear fellow, I have no intention of criticising your extraordinary theories afresh.”

“Thank you,” said Morris and gave his attention to his game. “Your move, Stenton, I think.”

Mr. Roylston sent a characteristic glance of patient suffering in the direction of his colleague, and then held up his hands for the benefit of the company as though to say, “You see how useless it is to discuss these things with our friend over there.” He then bade them all a tart good-night, and went off to keep his duty in the schoolroom.

His way led across the Gymnasium. There, in the center of a crowd of boys engaged in making his life miserable, stood the new boy, Finch, who had just been the subject of conversation in the masters’ common-room. He was a sorry specimen of a boy, to be sure; the sorriest probably that through mistaken kindness had ever found his way to a great school of wholesome, healthy youngsters. He was thin, he was pallid, he was ugly. He had the face of a little old man, weak light eyes, a high dome-like forehead, over which straggled little wisps of thin yellow hair. His ill-formed mouth was parted now in a snarl half of rage, half of terror, as he glanced from one jibing boy to another, like a hunted rat. His clothes were too small for him, and his thin little legs, which long since should have been concealed by long trousers, were incased in bright red knitted stockings. These had acted upon the imagination of his schoolmates like the proverbial red rag upon a bull, and were the subject of the stream of jibes and jokes that were being heaped upon him. It was not a representative crowd of boys that surrounded him, but a miscellaneous crew of lower schoolers who had followed in the wake of a fat Third Form boy, known as Ducky Thornton, the self-appointed chief inquisitor of the moment. The noise was unduly loud, consisting for the most part of catcalls and strange and weird squeaks from the throats of a dozen excited small boys. It was the sort of commotion that under ordinary circumstances Mr. Roylston would have promptly checked and rewarded with a liberal distribution of pensums. Such indeed had been his immediate impulse, but as he started to carry out his purpose, he had caught sight of Finch and there had flashed into his mind the irritating exchange of words about him in the common-room. He checked the feeling of compassion for the new boy and his annoyance at the disturbance, and passed quickly into the cloister that led into the schoolroom.

Fortunately for Finch a more resolute champion now appeared upon the scene. It was Kit Wilson—on his way across the Gymnasium. Quick as a flash he took in the situation, and, crossing the room with a leap and a stride, he landed in the midst of the party of “horsers.” He grabbed one small boy by the collar of his coat and sent him spinning out into the middle of the Gymnasium, another he pushed out of his way with something of his football manner, and ended by applying a kick to Ducky Thornton that even that well-cushioned individual was apt to remember. “Here, you infernal cads!” he cried, “cut this out! what the deuce do you think you’re up to?” The crowd of small boys scattered instantly, leaving poor Ducky, with rueful face and painful limp, to hobble away by himself, pursued by a volley of Kit’s variegated vocabulary that was more picturesque than elegant.

Finch stood still where Kit had found him as if transfixed. He was relieved, thankful for the rescue, but incapable of saying so. His face looked hideous in the bright glare of the electric light, drawn as it was by anguish and blazing with what seemed like superhuman hate. Kit stared at him a moment, amazed by the passion of the boy’s face; almost shocked by its weird uncanny venom. Conquering the instinctive feeling of revulsion, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You poor little duffer,” he said, “I’m sorry for you. Don’t take it too hard. They’re a crowd of little curs, but their bark is worse than their bite.”

“I hate them,” snarled the boy. “I hate them.” Then his face relaxed, and the light faded in his little blue eyes, as they suffused with tears. “Thank you all the same,” he added, his voice still trembling with passion.

“What’s your name?” asked Kit.

“Jacob Finch.”

“Oh! you’re the new boy, eh? Where do you come from?”

“Coventry. I wish I was back. I can’t stand it here.”

“Rot!” exclaimed Kit, with the easy-going philosophy of popularity and success. “Cut along to the schoolroom now, and let me know if Ducky Thornton bothers you again.”

“All right,” Finch murmured, and dropping his head, he stole off through the cloister, keeping well within the shadow of the wall until he reached the schoolroom. There he was received by Mr. Roylston, who showed him a seat, and immediately afterwards called the room to order.

Kit, having watched Finch out of sight, stalked off grandly across the Gymnasium, dropping a word of warning here and there to the groups of small boys who had watched the encounter from a safe distance. Ducky Thornton witnessed his departure from an angle in the wall, whither he had retired with a few of his satellites. His face, at no time very attractive, wore now a most repulsive expression of contempt. “By golly,” was his comment, “he’s the swell head, ain’t he? I wonder if he hurts?”

“Not as much as you do, Ducky, I guess,” squeaked a premature wit and got his ears cuffed for his effort.

A few minutes later Wilson dropped into the study of Number Five Standerland, which Deering and Lawrence were sharing that year, Carroll having been promoted to the Old School, a privilege of the Sixth. The two boys were sitting at their desks, books open, it is true, but rather deeper in football than Virgil. Kit received a characteristic welcome.

“Hello, old sport, drape yourself on a couch, and listen to this fairy tale about the pious Æneas. Tony’s boned it out.”

“Oh, chuck the stuff!” growled Kit. “I’ll do it after breakfast with a trot. I’ve only got ten minutes now for a pow-wow. Have you seen the new kid?”

“Well, rather,” answered Jimmie, “the Doctor has loaded him onto Bill. He’s to have Number Three single right across the hall. The little beast is in the Fifth.”

“Pon honor?” said Kit. “Why, he looks like a sub-First Former. I just rescued him from a crowd of Lower Schoolers that were putting it to him particularly nastily. I gave Ducky Thornton, that wallowing white elephant of the Third, a kick that I reckon’ll make his sitting down uncomfortable for a week. But Finch is such a gloomy little toad that I was almost sorry I’d done it.”

Tony smiled. “That must have been good fun. But I am sorry the Doctor took him here; can’t understand it, in fact. He’ll never do, poor rat!”

“Well, hardly.”

“By the by, kiddo, what——Come in!” he interrupted himself to cry in response to a knock at the door.

Morris entered and was welcomed by the boys in a manner that bespoke both familiarity and deference. The master waved them back into their comfortable chairs. “Thanks, no; I am not going to rob the lot of you of these precious moments of study. I should like to speak to you, Tony, for a few minutes in my study.”

“Certainly, sir.” Tony followed the master down the hallway to the familiar cheerful study—Tony had really got to know his house-master more intimately the year before.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Morris, “for I want to talk with you for a little while—quite seriously.”

Tony sat down upon the couch, leaned back amongst the pillows and put his hands beneath his head, looking up at Morris who stood on the hearth rug with his back to the open wood fire. “All right, O wise man!” he laughed. “I am very comfy, and all attention.”

Morris looked down at the boy and seemed to study him afresh. He liked Deering very much indeed, better he felt than he had ever liked a boy before. And as he stood there, he told himself that the reason was, that beside Tony’s personal charm, the brightness and lovableness of his sunshiny open nature, there were depths of feeling and purpose that one ordinarily did not find. “Well, Tony, I want you to do something—something quite out of the ordinary—something indeed that I think will be particularly hard and disagreeable.”

“What is it?” asked the boy, “I don’t exactly crave hardship, but there isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do if you specially asked me.”

“Well, I count on that; that’s partly the reason I am asking you rather than another. I want you to make a special effort to look out for Finch.”

“Gee whiz! Mr. Morris,” exclaimed Tony, sitting upright, and assuming an expression of exaggerated horror. “I’ve seen him! I’ll be decent, of course. But really, I don’t see how I can possibly stand taking that little scarecrow under my wing. Why, Jimmie and Kit would——”

“Oh, yes, I know their attitude; but you know as well as I that they would back you up in the matter. I want you to be more than decent. The boy is here, and the Head has strong reasons for wanting him to make good. As you know, all the chances are against his doing so. In truth, I should say, that the boy has no chance unless an old boy, more or less of your caliber, will definitely take him up and befriend him.”

“Nobody is going to hurt him,” protested Tony. “Why, Kit just now rescued him from Ducky Thornton and a crowd of little bullies.”

“That’s good,” answered Morris, “but that is only a drop in the bucket. That boy’s life will be unbearable unless he makes a friend. And I do not believe there is a boy in the school who would be his friend, really his friend,—except you.”

“His friend, Mr. Morris?...!”

“Nothing else helps you know—nothing.”

Tony grew serious. He thought of what friendship had meant to him:—Jimmie—his eyes moistened at the thought of him; Carroll; Morris, the man before him, whose deep kind gray eyes were looking at him now so confidently. “Mr. Morris,” he said at last, “you do know me, I reckon; you bank on my being clay in your hands.” Then he laughed, “What’s the brat’s name?—Pinch?”

“No, Finch, Jacob Finch.”

“Well, all right—Finch.... The dickens fly away with him. Good-night, maestro.”

“Good-night, my boy.” They clasped hands for a moment, and Tony was gone.

“I am an ass,” he said, flinging himself on the couch by the side of Kit, when he returned to Number Five. “I’ve promised Bill to be a guardian angel to that new kid.”