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.

Finch had spent the summer at Deal, so perhaps there was little reason for him to become enthusiastic over a prospect of beauty of which he had had so many opportunities for growing weary. As he looked back on the spring term, he hardly knew how he had got through it. He lived during its last six weeks more than ever in his shell, studying desperately to pass his examinations. And in that he had succeeded.

After Deering’s departure and his own exposure before Wilson, he avoided every one, even Lawrence and Mr. Morris. And save on two or three occasions, after a more bitter jibe than usual in the classroom when he revenged himself on Mr. Roylston, he gave up his secret vandalism. During the summer he stayed on at Deal. The time had gone pleasantly enough, and had he been able to recoup his health, he might have been restored to an equable frame of mind, but unfortunately he was physically as miserable as ever.

By the middle of August he began to worry about the possibility of Deering not coming back. After a letter or so, which characteristically he had left unanswered, he heard nothing from Tony. In August he heard, however, from Doctor Forester, who was spending a week-end with the Lawrences at Easthampfield. “You will be interested to learn,” he had written, “that your friend Anthony Deering is here with James, and that there is now no longer any doubt of his returning to school in September. I look forward to great things from him as leader of the school.” From that time on Finch lived from day to day on the expectation of Tony’s return. He was thrilled by the implied statement of the Head Master’s letter that Tony would be appointed Head Prefect, though he could not imagine that any other boy had for a moment been seriously considered. Several times the first day of the term when he had heard the boys discussing the probability of Tony’s return and appointment, he smiled to himself with secret glee and a strange feeling of self-importance at his inside information. But he said nothing. It pleased him though that almost all of the boys seemed to take it for granted.

At last, on that lovely September afternoon as Jake lay under the bushes on the Old School terrace, he was rewarded for his long vigil. In one of the last of the many carriages that drove up, he saw Lawrence and Deering. The rays of the setting sun were shining on the top of Tony’s bare copper-colored head and made it glow like burnished gold. To Jake’s adoring eyes it was as the halo about the head of a patron saint. He watched the two boys clamber out of their hack, pay the driver, and join a merry crowd of fellows who were unofficially welcoming late arrivals. “Hello Tony!” “Hello Jim!” “Well, I’m mighty glad to see you!” With such cries he heard fresh young voices ring; and with bright eyes, he followed his hero as he entered the doors of the Old School in the midst of a happy crowd of his classmates. Through the window, to which he crept, he saw the cordial greeting that Tony and Jimmie got from the Doctor and Mrs. Forester. A moment later Finch saw Kit Wilson enter, and heartily greet every one except Tony. He sent a glance of vindictive hatred toward Wilson that it was well for him Kit did not see.

About half-an-hour after supper Jake tapped timidly at the door of Number Five study. In response there came a hearty “Come in.”

“Why, hello, Finch,” cried Tony, grasping his visitor’s hand with a strong grip, “I declare, you’re getting fat.”

Finch laughed ruefully. “Not very, I guess.”

“Well, old chap, how have you been? Why the deuce haven’t you ever written to me?”

“I dunno; I’m no hand at writing, I guess. I was glad to hear from you though.”

“How goes it? Where have you been all summer?”

“Here,” answered Finch laconically.

“Here! what on earth were you doing here?”

“Didn’t have money enough to go any place else. The Head gave me some work in the library, cataloguing books.”

“Good for him! I ought to have been working myself, I reckon. Money’s been pretty scarce down our way too. By Jove, old boy, it’s good to be back, you know. You don’t know how much you care for the old shop till you leave it.”

“No, I guess you don’t,” was Finch’s ambiguous reply.

“Well, Jake, we’re going to have a good year this time anyway. I’m going to pull you out of the dumps instanter. Jimmie says you’ve been cutting Number Five since I’ve been away. That won’t do.” He looked about him with undisguised pride and pleasure. “Things do look pretty nice and comfy in the old camp-ground, don’t they?”

“They certainly do look good for you, Deering. You’ll be Head Prefect.”

“Stop your kidding, Jake.”

“Oh, you know you’ll get it,” said Jake. “I guess it would have been announced all right last spring if you hadn’t been so sure you mightn’t come back. But it’s all right now.”

“Well, to tell the truth,” rejoined Tony with a laugh, “of course I hope it’s all right. It’s a sort of a turn-down when a President of the Dealonian doesn’t get it. But there are other chaps that deserve it on other accounts much more than I do. There’s Ned Clavering and Doc Thorn. They are the right sort. We’ve never been very thick but there aren’t two fellows in the school that I have more respect for. I reckon if I hadn’t made that lucky run in the Boxford game and been elected President of the Dealonian soon after, that Ned would have had a better chance than I. Fact is, I really never thought of being Head Prefect till I had that election thrust upon me.”

“Clavering and Thorn are prefects all right. But you are to be head. The Doctor told me so himself.”

“The deuce he did!”

“Honest. He wrote me a letter about my being here last summer while he was at Easthampfield, staying with Mr. Lawrence. He said you were there with Lawrence, and then told me that you were to be Head Prefect.”

“That’s funny. But if it’s so, why of course I’m mighty glad. As far back as I know anything about the school there have only been three Presidents of Dealonian who were not Head Prefect in their Sixth Form year. However, it means a lot of responsibility and knocks out chances of a heap of fun.”

“I guess you’re up to it,” said Finch with conviction.

“If I get it, I’ll certainly try to make good. But as a matter of fact I haven’t got it yet. Tell me how things went last year? How’s the dear old Gumshoe?”

“Same as ever. I hate him.”

“Tut, tut, my child; there’s mighty few people worth hating.”

“He is,” said Jake without a smile. “He’s a sneak.”

“Now, as a matter of fact, Jake, I don’t think he is. The Gumshoe, as I have reason to know, can be uncommonly mean, but I don’t believe for a minute that he’s a sneak. I am coming by degrees, reflection bein’ aided by merciful separation, to understand the Gumshoe’s point of view: it’s pinched and peaked, but it isn’t sneaky—he is just as disagreeable to your face as he possibly can be behind your back. He’s had a hard row to hoe, and I don’t blame him now and then for being crabbed and sour. But I reckon he takes it out in that.”

“I don’t think he does,” said Finch quite unconvinced by Tony’s more generous reasoning. “I don’t think so at all. He’d strike in the dark. I don’t trust him.”

“Reggie never would either,” Tony mused for the moment; then more cheerfully, “But come, let’s talk of something pleasant. How——Why, hello, Ted.” This last exclamation was directed at a drab comical face and ruffled head of mouse-colored hair that thrust itself through the half-open doorway. “Come in, you duffer.”

“Didn’t know you were busy,” said Teddy Lansing, entering.

“Well, I ain’t,” said Tony.

Finch rose from his seat on the window-sill and sidled toward the door. “I guess I’ll be going,” he said to Deering, and bolted.

“Now, what the deuce is the matter with him?” exclaimed Tony. “He shies at his shadow.”

“Pah—Pinch!” Teddy spat with emphasis at the waste paper basket.

Tony looked up quickly, but restrained the impulse of annoyance. “What’s the matter with Finch?”

“Oh, nothing particular. I just don’t like him. He’s a sneak. But there, I beg your pardon, Tony,” Teddy caught himself, remembering the cause of Deering’s quarrel with Wilson. “I suppose you will stand up for him. I don’t know much about him; but he got on my nerves last spring to a degree. Guess he’s bug-house.”

“He has had a blamed hard time here—that accounts for it. But I don’t think he is a sneak. If we had given him half a chance——.”

“I know, I know, old chap; you’ve certainly given him more than half a chance, and if you think it pays, all right all right. I think, you know, that Pinch isn’t worth the trouble you’ve taken with him. But I’ll admit that I had no right to call him a sneak. However he hasn’t made good here.”

“Perhaps not,” said Tony. “But I wish he could. Where’s the crowd?”

“Unpacking, I guess. What sort of a summer have you had, old man? We missed you a lot here last spring.”

“Bully—I was down in the mountains, North Carolina. Where were you?”

“Oh, home mostly. Confound! there’s the bell for Chapel. Come on, let’s wander down.”

The two boys made their way, arm in arm, through Standerland corridors, across a moonlight-flooded campus to the Chapel. At the entrance they came face to face with Mr. Roylston; he gave them a short greeting and passed rapidly within. Tony was in high spirits, and waited outside until the last moment, greeting boys he had not seen and an occasional master. He could not help wondering, as he took his seat with a feeling of pride in the Sixth Form rows, if the Doctor would announce who was to be Head Prefect that evening.

But he did not. After the customary short service, an adaptation of Evening Prayer from the Prayer-book, the Head made a few general announcements, including a faculty meeting that evening, and then gave the boys a talk. Doctor Forester was at his best in Chapel. There was a simplicity in his sermons and addresses, a rugged kindly earnestness, lit up by occasional flashes of insight and vision, that made him from the Chapel pulpit a genuine moral and religious force amongst his boys. His theme that evening was the Power of Kindness as a source of happiness and goodness in the life of the school. Tony, as he listened, felt a pang of remorse for his jibes at Mr. Roylston and a keen sting of regret for his difference with Kit; otherwise, on the whole, he thought, he did try to be kind. And he liked what the Doctor said because it put his own views into much better, clearer terms than he could have given them.

Tony, though he had absorbed much of the best that the school and the strong men who made the school could give him, had not consciously been deeply touched or drawn to the religious life of the place. He said his prayers at night; once in a long, long time he read his Bible; he tried to do his duty mostly, he wanted usually to be kind; indeed he usually was kind; and, thought little more about it. His family were all churchmen and he supposed that some time he would be confirmed, but he had not yet been, and indeed had never understood what it was that drew people, especially boys of his age, toward a more personal religion. But to-night, the old familiar hymns, sung with such hearty good will; the gracious cadences of the well-known prayers and psalms; the sense of dependence upon and communion with a Higher Power that breathed in the Doctor’s talk to them: and particularly the soft singing in Latin of an old monastic hymn, set to a Gregorian rhythm which the boys always sang at evening services in the Chapel:—to-night, it all touched him more intimately and deeply than it ever had done before.

“I think I will be confirmed this year, Jimmie,” he said to his room-mate, as they strolled across the campus in the soft night, with their arms about each other’s necks.

“I wish you would,” Jimmie replied, somewhat to his surprise. “I was confirmed last spring, and I’m mighty glad I was.”

They fell then into intimate talk—of themselves, of the summer, of their plans for the year....

While the boys of the school were busy that evening with their unpacking and the setting of their rooms to order, under the supervision of the younger masters, the senior members of the faculty were gathering for their first meeting of the term in the Masters’ common-room. This room was directly back of the library. Its windows opened eastward on to the terrace, and commanded a superb view of the moonlight-flooded sea and shore. The windows were opened to the night air, and the fragrance of the late honeysuckle drifted in on the soft breeze.

Doctor Forester was the last to enter. He had stopped a moment in the library to speak with Finch, who was reading there.

“Oh, Jacob,” he said, pausing as if he suddenly recollected something, “do you chance to remember a letter I wrote you last summer from Easthampfield when I was staying with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I just wish to caution you not to repeat any remark I seem to recall having made there about this year’s Head Prefect. I want it to come as a surprise to all the boys, as well as to the boy I think I mentioned. But the appointment is not made yet—it is always done in conjunction with the masters.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Doctor passed on into the common-room.

In a few moments he had settled himself behind the big table, and glanced about over his glasses at his colleagues, to see who was present. About thirty members of the faculty were there, including all of the senior masters. Morris was standing with a little group by the fireplace. Mr. Roylston was sitting by the window looking out upon the moonlit sea.

“Gentlemen, will you please come to order.” The Doctor paused for a moment while they settled into various attitudes of attention. “I have called you together to-night to settle with your advice the question of the Head Prefectship. I have seldom postponed this appointment until after the Long Vacation, but last June the boy who seemed to have most claim to the place left school and it was doubtful for the time if he would return. I may say, that I should have appointed him even with that doubt unsettled, had not one of the senior masters particularly requested me to postpone the appointment until this fall.”

He paused again, and looked about him. “There is no reason for further delay. The obvious candidate for the position is, of course, Anthony Deering. He was, as you all know, not only the president of the Dealonian Society, which according to tradition registers the boys’ choice of their leader, but he was unanimously nominated to me by the retiring prefects of last year’s Sixth Form. I may say at once, that unless there is strong reason to the contrary, that I am disposed to confirm that nomination this evening. He is a boy who has been keenly interested in most of the school activities and he has shown ability and capacity for leadership in most of them. Personally, as we all feel I imagine, he is a charming lad, high bred, coming of one of the best old southern families; and, as on several occasions I have had the opportunity for judging, he has always displayed a sense of honor and an attitude of unselfishness and kindness that is as rare as it is delightful. I should be glad, however, to hear your comments on the nomination, or to have the merits of any other boy discussed whom you may feel is entitled to consideration.”

After a moment’s silence, Stenton addressed the masters. “Doctor Forester,” he said, “I should like to say that I thoroughly agree with all that you say about Deering. I have observed him at close quarters on the athletic field, and I never knew a squarer, more plucky lad. As you know, other things being equal, I believe that an athlete should have preference for the Head Prefectship. Two years ago I doubted if Deering would fulfill his athletic promise, but his exploit in the Boxford game of last year, thoroughly re-established his athletic reputation. I think he is, simply because of his genial character and general popularity, better adapted to the position than Ned Clavering, the football captain, who would be my next choice. He too is a fine chap, and though he lacks Deering’s attractiveness, he is not so quick and impulsive.”

“His impulses,” asked the Head, “are usually generous, are they not?”

“Yes, I think they are,” Stenton replied. “He is decidedly my choice.”

“And you, Mr. Morris?”

“Why, yes, sir; I fancy my opinion of Deering is well known. He has faults. He is impulsive, as Stenton says; he is quick and he has a sharp temper. But granting that, I am frank to say that he is a boy whom it has been a privilege as well as a pleasure to know. I think not merely that we would make no mistake in selecting him for Head Prefect, but that we could not possibly find another boy who would do so well.”

“That is very much my impression,” said the Doctor. “Unless—yes, Mr. Roylston.”

“I am sorry to say,” interrupted Mr. Roylston, from his seat on the window-bench, in low distinct tones in which there was discernible but a trace of feeling, “I am sorry to say there is an ‘unless.’ I regret very much to utter a discordant note to the chorus of praise that has been sounding for the boy whose name is under our consideration, but a sense of duty as well as deep personal feeling impels me to say that I should regard it as a calamity of injustice if he should receive this appointment.”

The men turned with amazement and curiosity in the direction of the Latin master. “My experience of him,” that gentleman continued, “though it has scarcely been as intimate as that of Mr. Stenton or Mr. Morris,—both of whom, I understand, believe in as well as practice, cultivating intimacies with boys,—but it has been as extended. And never, I desire to say, in my long experience have I had as much trouble or been subjected to such impertinence and insult as by Deering and his satellites.”

Doctor Forester interrupted his assistant master a little impatiently. “I should be obliged if you will specify some of his delinquencies, Mr. Roylston.”

“I fear I should exhaust your patience,” replied the master, “if I attempted to detail the difficulties to which I have been subjected. I shall content myself with but one instance which was the culmination last spring of a long series of annoyances.”

All of the men in the room were now giving Mr. Roylston an undivided attention. All were surprised except Beverly; even Morris looked at him with open-eyed amazement. They knew, of course, that he had had what they regarded trifling disciplinary troubles with Deering and his friends,—a lively crowd, especially in their Lower School days,—but they had no reason to suspect that the master would take such a definitely hostile attitude in a matter that seriously affected a boy’s school life. Doctor Forester had had some slight intimation, as it had been Mr. Roylston who urged the postponement of the appointment.

“Some time last year,” continued Mr. Roylston,—“in March, to be more exact,—I had some difficulty with Deering and Wilson, who were then chums, though I believe that Wilson has since formed other associations. They broke a gating that I had imposed upon them, and when the matter was referred to the Head Master,—unwisely, I thought, as I trust I may be pardoned for saying,—their disobedience was not punished. From that time on I do not think that I am mistaken in saying that I marked a bravado in their attitude toward me that was just short of impertinence. I did not relax my vigilance, so there were no more overt acts of disobedience. However, they had what I suppose they considered their revenge. One day in first study I confiscated from the boy Finch a composition entitled ‘The Spectacle.’ Upon examination it proved to be a somewhat coarse imitation of Addison’s Spectator.” Mr. Roylston drew a copy of Tony’s unfortunate composition from his pocket. “The particular number that fell into my hands was entitled ‘Soft-toed Samuel.’ With your permission, sir, I should like to read it to the faculty.”

“Certainly,” assented Doctor Forester, “if you think best. If you prefer——”

“I do prefer, sir.”

“Very good—read it, by all means.”

Mr. Roylston slowly unfolded the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and read to his colleagues Tony’s effusion. He read it well, did full justice to the sarcasm, the animus that had been in the writer’s mind at the moment of composition. Some of the men, conscious of the invasion it made upon magisterial dignity, were plainly in sympathy with Roylston’s indignation; others found difficulty in concealing their enjoyment of its wit, and a little perhaps, in hiding their satisfaction in seeing a colleague, none too popular with themselves, held up to ridicule.

As Mr. Roylston concluded, he folded the paper and handed it to the Head Master. “That, sir,” he said, “is a copy of the original which was in Anthony Deering’s handwriting, and the authorship of which he acknowledged.”

Doctor Forester took the poor Spectacle into his hands and glanced at it. “This is, of course, very distressing; very unfortunate; a most unfortunate occurrence.”

Morris spoke up quickly. “May I ask, Mr. Roylston, if Deering did not apologize for this thing and show genuine regret?”

“For its discovery, yes,” answered Mr. Roylston dryly, as he met Morris’s keen glance with a stare of scarcely concealed dislike.

“No, not for the discovery; for the thing itself, I mean,” said Morris.

“He apologized, of course. There was nothing else he could do as the evidence was perfect. As for contrition, you, perhaps, are a better judge of that than I.”

Morris flushed. “Deering has never mentioned the matter to me, Mr. Roylston. I agree with you that it is a flagrant impropriety and that it must have seemed to you a gratuitous insult. But, of course, it was not intended for your eyes, and I dare say, is no worse than many another such squib as might be directed at any of us by almost any boy. Their sense of fun is doubtless often misdirected, but it is only a sense of fun, I believe, and usually quite devoid of malice.”

“My acquaintance with Deering, Mr. Morris, has not been of so happy a nature as yours. I am not able to believe that he is devoid of malice.”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted the Head, “I should be glad to hear anything you have to say on the subject. I appreciate Mr. Roylston’s very natural feeling. I hope very much, however, that he may see with me that it is one of those unfortunate incidents which——.”

“Pardon me, sir,” exclaimed the master, “if I define my attitude precisely. It will prevent misunderstanding. I have reflected on this matter for six months. I can only say that should the Head Master and the faculty of this school reward with the highest honors a boy who so deeply has insulted a member of the faculty, thus seeming to stamp with their approval a quite intolerable attitude of disrespect, that I should be under the painful necessity of severing my connection with the institution.” With that he rose, bowed slightly, and excused himself.

Doctor Forester rose quickly. “Gentlemen, this is evidently a more serious question than I had supposed. I shall speak with Mr. Roylston alone, and with your permission I will take the responsibility of a decision entirely upon myself. I think we may consider the meeting adjourned.”

Had the masters that evening been less intent upon what was going on within, sharp eyes, directed to the clump of bushes immediately beneath the windows, might have detected an eavesdropper on their proceedings. But they did not, and when the meeting had adjourned, he slunk, unobserved, away.