The White Feather quotes

He’s no good, but there’s nobody else. Colours have been simply a gift this year to anyone who can do a thing. Only Barry and myself left from last year’s team. I never saw such a clearance as there was after the summer term.”

“Where are the boys of the Old Brigade?” sighed Clowes.

“I don’t know. I wish they were here,” said Allardyce.

“I spotted him all right. It was that chap who was marking me today, Stanning. Wonder what he’s after. Perhaps he’s gone to tar the statue, like O’Hara. Rather a sportsman.”

“Rather a silly idiot,” said Trevor. “I hope he gets caught.”

“You always were one of those kind sympathetic chaps,” said Clowes. “Come on, or Donaldson’ll be locking us out.”

“Rather a silly idiot,” said Trevor. “I hope he gets caught.”

“You always were one of those kind sympathetic chaps,” said Clowes.

“Come on, or Donaldson’ll be locking us out.”

On the afternoon following the Oxford A match, Sheen, of Seymour’s, was sitting over the gas-stove in his study with a Thucydides. He had been staying in that day with a cold. He was always staying in.

Everyone has his hobby. That was Sheen’s.

Nobody at Wrykyn, even at Seymour’s, seemed to know Sheen very well, with the exception of Drummond; and those who troubled to think about the matter at all rather wondered what Drummond saw in him. To the superficial observer the two had nothing in common.

“What’s the excitement?” he said. “There’s plenty of time. Dear old Albert’s not the sort of chap to go away when he’s got us cornered here.

The first principle of warfare is to get a good feed before you start.

”

“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.

It was no good arguing against himself. No amount of argument could wipe away the truth.

He had been afraid, and had shown it.

And he had shown it when, in a sense, he was representing the school, when Wrykyn looked to him to help it keep its end up against the town.

It helped him to enjoy his meals. He slept the better for it. After a little turn up with a Judy he was fuller of that spirit of manly fortitude and forbearance so necessary to those whom Fate brought frequently into contact with Mr. Dexter.

The Judies wore mortarboards, and it was an enjoyable pastime sending these spinning into space during one of the usual rencontres in the High Street.

From the fact that he and his friends were invariably outnumbered, there was a sporting element in these affairs, though occasionally this inferiority of numbers was the cause of his executing a scientific retreat with the enemy harassing his men up to the very edge …

“Beware,” said Mr. Bevan oracularly, “of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, bear’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee. Always counter back when you guard. When a man shows you his right like that, always push out your hand straight.

The straight left rules the boxing world.

Feeling better, sir?”

“When I say ‘Three,’ ” said Tomlin.

It was a subject of heated discussion between the crews for weeks afterwards whether Dexter’s boat did or did not go off at the word “Two.”

Opinions were divided on the topic. But it was certain that Jackson and his men led from the start. Pulling a good, splashing stroke which had drenched Crowle to the skin in the first thirty yards, Dexter’s boat crept slowly ahead.

Nobody must take a boat upstream. The school boatman would have strict orders to see that this rule was rigidly enforced. Any breach of these bounds would, he concluded, be punished with the utmost severity.

The headmaster of Wrykyn was not a hasty man. He thought before he put his foot down. But when he did, he put it down heavily.

Sheen heard the ultimatum with dismay.

But he had not flinched, and the statement of Francis, as they shook hands, that he had “done varry well,” was as balm.

Boxing is one of the few sports where the loser can feel the same thrill of triumph as the winner.

There is no satisfaction equal to that which comes when one has forced oneself to go through an ordeal from which one would have liked to have escaped.

But he had not flinched, and the statement of Francis, as they shook hands, that he had “done varry well,” was as balm. Boxing is one of the few sports where the loser can feel the same thrill of triumph as the winner.

There is no satisfaction equal to that which comes when one has forced oneself to go through an ordeal from which one would have liked to have escaped.

“Capital, sir, capital,” said Joe Bevan. “I wanted to see whether you would lay down or not when you began to get a few punches. You did capitally, Mr. Sheen.”

Though he did not know it, his dissatisfaction was due principally to the fact that, owing to his isolation, he had been unable to compare notes after the examinations with the others.

Doing an examination without comparing notes subsequently with one’s rivals, is like playing golf against a bogey.

The imaginary rival against whom one pits oneself never makes a mistake. Our own “howlers” stand out in all their horrid nakedness; but we do not realise that our rivals have probably made others far worse. In this way Sheen plumbed the depths of depression.

The head of the house looked troubled. This was awfully awkward.

“Well played, Sheen,” he said again.

“Don’t mention it, Rigby,” said the winner of the Gotford politely, looking up from his plate.

“Well played, Sheen,” he said again.

“Don’t mention it, Rigby,” said the winner of the Gotford politely, looking up from his plate.

But in the Public Schools Competition at Aldershot there would be no quarter. There would be nothing but deadly earnest. If he allowed himself to be manoeuvred into an awkward position, only his own skill, or the call of time, could extricate him from it.

In a word, at the “Blue Boar” he sparred. At Aldershot he would have to fight.

Was he capable of fighting?

… innocuous three rounds, and the man of war was kind enough to whisper in his ear as they left the room that he hoped he would win the final, and that he himself had a matter of one-and-sixpence with Old Spud Smith on his success.

“For I’m a man,” said the amiable warrior confidentially, “as knows Class when he sees it. You’re Class, sir, that’s what you are.”

This, taken in conjunction with the fact that if the worst came to the worst he had, at any rate, won a medal by having got into the final, cheered Sheen. If only Joe Bevan had appeared he would have been perfectly contented.

Then, almost unconsciously, he recalled Joe Bevan’s advice.

“If a man’s got you in a corner,” Joe had said, “fall on him.”

Peteiro made another savage swing. Sheen dodged it and hurled himself forward.

For a few moments the exchanges were even. Then suddenly the Riptonian’s blows began to weaken. He got home his right on the head, and Sheen hardly felt it. And in a flash there came to him the glorious certainty that the game was his.

He was winning⁠—winning⁠—winning.

“That’s enough,” said the referee.

The referee waved his hand.

And that was the greatest moment of his life.

Then the thing came on him with nothing to soften the shock. He had folded the paper, and the last words on the half uppermost were, “Final. Sheen beat Peteiro.”

Linton had often read novels in which some important document “swam before the eyes” of the hero or the heroine; but he had never understood the full meaning of the phrase until he read those words, “Sheen beat Peteiro.”

There was no mistake about it. There the thing was. It was impossible for the Sportsman to have been hoaxed. No, the incredible, outrageous fact must be faced. Sheen had been down to Aldershot and won a silver medal! Sheen! Sheen!!

Clayton looked round in pained surprise at this sudden withdrawal of popular support.

“You’d better be polite to Sheen,” said Linton; “he won the Lightweights at Aldershot yesterday.”

The silence once more became strained.