"--and carry the key in my pocket."
"Ah. But, Mr. Elliot, I am a cousin of Widdrington's. He wrote to me about you. I am so glad. Will you, first of all, come to supper next Sunday?""I am afraid," put in Herbert, "that we poor housemasters must deny ourselves festivities in term time.""But mayn't he come once, just once?"
"May, my dear Jackson! My brother-in-law is not a baby. He decides for himself."Rickie naturally refused. As soon as they were out of hearing, Herbert said, "This is a little unfortunate. Who is Mr. Widdrington?"
"I knew him at Cambridge."
"Let me explain how we stand," he continued, after a pause.
"Jackson is the worst of the reactionaries here, while I--why should I conceal it?--have thrown in my lot with the party of progress. You will see how we suffer from him at the masters' meetings. He has no talent for organization, and yet he is always inflicting his ideas on others. It was like his impertinence to dictate to you what authors you should read, and meanwhile the sixth-form room like a bear-garden, and a school prefect being put into the waste-paper basket. My good Rickie, there's nothing to smile at. How is the school to go on with a man like that? It would be a case of 'quick march,' if it was not for his brilliant intellect. That's why I say it's a little unfortunate. You will have very little in common, you and he."Rickie did not answer. He was very fond of Widdrington, who was a quaint, sensitive person. And he could not help being attracted by Mr. Jackson, whose welcome contrasted pleasantly with the official breeziness of his other colleagues. He wondered, too, whether it is so very reactionary to contemplate the antique.
"It is true that I vote Conservative," pursued Mr. Pembroke, apparently confronting some objector. "But why? Because the Conservatives, rather than the Liberals, stand for progress. One must not be misled by catch-words.""Didn't you want to ask me something?"
"Ah, yes. You found a boy in your form called Varden?""Varden? Yes; there is."
"Drop on him heavily. He has broken the statutes of the school.
He is attending as a day-boy. The statutes provide that a boy must reside with his parents or guardians. He does neither. It must be stopped. You must tell the headmaster.""Where does the boy live?"
"At a certain Mrs. Orr's, who has no connection with the school of any kind. It must be stopped. He must either enter a boarding-house or go.""But why should I tell?" said Rickie. He remembered the boy, an unattractive person with protruding ears, "It is the business of his house-master.""House-master--exactly. Here we come back again. Who is now the day-boys' house-master? Jackson once again--as if anything was Jackson's business! I handed the house back last term in a most flourishing condition. It has already gone to rack and ruin for the second time. To return to Varden. I have unearthed a put-up job. Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Orr are friends. Do you see? It all works round.""I see. It does--or might."
"The headmaster will never sanction it when it's put to him plainly.""But why should I put it?" said Rickie, twisting the ribbons of his gown round his fingers.
"Because you're the boy's form-master."
"Is that a reason?"
"Of course it is."
"I only wondered whether--" He did not like to say that he wondered whether he need do it his first morning.
"By some means or other you must find out--of course you know already, but you must find out from the boy. I know--I have it!
Where's his health certificate?"
"He had forgotten it."
"Just like them. Well, when he brings it, it will be signed by Mrs. Orr, and you must look at it and say, 'Orr--Orr--Mrs.
Orr?' or something to that effect, and then the whole thing will come naturally out."The bell rang, and they went in for the hour of school that concluded the morning. Varden brought his health certificate--a pompous document asserting that he had not suffered from roseola or kindred ailments in the holidays--and for a long time Rickie sat with it before him, spread open upon his desk. He did not quite like the job. It suggested intrigue, and he had come to Sawston not to intrigue but to labour. Doubtless Herbert was right, and Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Orr were wrong. But why could they not have it out among themselves? Then he thought, "I am a coward, and that's why I'm raising these objections," called the boy up to him, and it did all come out naturally, more or less.
Hitherto Varden had lived with his mother; but she had left Sawston at Christmas, and now he would live with Mrs. Orr. "Mr. Jackson, sir, said it would be all right."