The White Feather

“With apologies to gent opposite,” said Clowes, “I must say I don’t think much of the team.”

“Don’t apologise to me,” said Allardyce disgustedly, as he filled the teapot, “I think they’re rotten.”

“They ought to have got into form by now, too,” said Trevor. “It’s not as if this was the first game of the term.”

“First game!” Allardyce laughed shortly. “Why, we’ve only got a couple of club matches and the return match with Ripton to end the season. It is about time they got into form, as you say.”

Clowes stared pensively into the fire.

“They struck me,” he said, “as the sort of team who’d get into form somewhere in the middle of the cricket season.”

“That’s about it,” said Allardyce. “Try those biscuits, Trevor. They’re about the only good thing left in the place.”

“School isn’t what it was?” inquired Trevor, plunging a hand into the tin that stood on the floor beside him.

“No,” said Allardyce, “not only in footer but in everything. The place seems absolutely rotten. It’s bad enough losing all our matches, or nearly all. Did you hear that Ripton took thirty-seven points off us last term? And we only just managed to beat Greenburgh by a try to nil.”

It happened that Drummond and Sheen were also among those whom it had struck that afternoon that tea at Cook’s would be pleasant; and they came upon the combatants some five minutes after battle had been joined. The town contingent were filling the air with strange cries, Albert’s voice being easily heard above the din, while the Wrykinians, as public-school men should, were fighting quietly and without unseemly tumult.

“By Jove,” said Drummond, “here’s a row on.”

Sheen stopped dead, with a queer, sinking feeling within him. He gulped. Drummond did not notice these portents. He was observing the battle.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.

“Why, it’s some of our chaps! There’s a Seymour’s cap. Isn’t that McTodd? And, great Scott! there’s Barry. Come on, man!”

Sheen did not move.

“Ought we⁠ ⁠… to get⁠ ⁠… mixed up⁠ ⁠… ?” he began.

Drummond looked at him with open eyes. Sheen babbled on.

“The old man might not like⁠—sixth form, you see⁠—oughtn’t we to⁠—?”

There was a yell of triumph from the town army as the red-haired Albert, plunging through the fray, sent Barry staggering against the wall. Sheen caught a glimpse of Albert’s grinning face as he turned. He had a cut over one eye. It bled.

“Come on,” said Drummond, beginning to run to the scene of action.

Sheen paused for a moment irresolutely. Then he walked rapidly in the opposite direction.

He went down the passage to Drummond’s study. Somebody was inside. He could hear him.

He knocked at the door.

Drummond was sitting at the table reading. He looked up, and there was a silence. Sheen’s mouth felt dry. He could not think how to begin. He noticed that Drummond’s face was unmarked. Looking down, he saw that one of the knuckles of the hand that held the book was swollen and cut.

“Drummond, I⁠—”

Drummond lowered the book.

“Get out,” he said. He spoke without heat, calmly, as if he were making some conventional remark by way of starting a conversation.

“I only came to ask⁠—”

“Get out,” said Drummond again.

There was another pause. Drummond raised his book and went on reading.

Sheen left the room.

Almost involuntarily he staggered up to receive another blow which sent him down again.

“That’ll do,” said a voice.

Sheen got up, panting. Between him and his assailant stood a short, sturdy man in a tweed suit. He was waving Albert back, and Albert appeared to be dissatisfied. He was arguing hotly with the newcomer.

“Now, you go away,” said that worthy, mildly, “just you go away.”

Albert gave it as his opinion that the speaker would do well not to come interfering in what didn’t concern him. What he wanted, asserted Albert, was a thick ear.

“Coming pushing yourself in,” added Albert querulously.

“You go away,” repeated the stranger. “You go away. I don’t want to have trouble with you.”

Albert’s reply was to hit out with his left hand in the direction of the speaker’s face. The stranger, without fuss, touched the back of Albert’s wrist gently with the palm of his right hand, and Albert, turning round in a circle, ended the manoeuvre with his back towards his opponent. He faced round again irresolutely. The thing had surprised him.

“You go away,” said the other, as if he were making the observation for the first time.

“It’s Joe Bevan,” said one of Albert’s friends, excitedly.

Albert’s jaw fell. His freckled face paled.

“You go away,” repeated the man in the tweed suit, whose conversation seemed inclined to run in a groove.

This time Albert took the advice. His friends had already taken it.