Part 58

“You’re quite right.” The island was then entering on five years of Mr. Gladstone’s rule; and the General did not like what he had seen of it. He would certainly write to the Head, for it was beyond question that the boys of to-day made the men of to-morrow. That, if he might say so, was uncommonly well put.

In reply, the Head stated that he should be delighted to welcome Mr. Raymond Martin, M.P., of whom he had heard so much; to put him up for the night, and to allow him to address the school on any subject that he conceived would interest them. If Mr. Martin had not yet faced an audience of this particular class of British youth, the Head had no doubt that he would find it an interesting experience.

“And I don’t think I am very far wrong in that last,” he confided to the Reverend John. “Do you happen to know anything of one Raymond Martin?”

“I was at College with a man of that name,” the chaplain replied. “He was without form and void, so far as I remember, but desperately earnest.”

“He will address the Coll. on ‘Patriotism’ next Saturday.”

“If there is one thing our boys detest more than another it is having their Saturday evenings broken into. Patriotism has no chance beside ‘brewing.’”

“Nor art either. D’you remember our ‘Evening with Shakespeare’?” The Head’s eyes twinkled. “Or the humorous gentleman with the magic lantern?”

* * * * *

“An’ who the dooce is this Raymond Martin, M.P.?” demanded Beetle, when he read the notice of the lecture in the corridor. “Why do the brutes always turn up on a Saturday?”

“Ouh! Reomeo, Reomeo. Wherefore art thou Reomeo?” said McTurk over his shoulder, quoting the Shakespeare artiste of last term. “Well, he won’t be as bad as her, I hope. Stalky, are you properly patriotic? Because if you ain’t, this chap’s goin’ to make you.”

“Hope he won’t take up the whole of the evening. I suppose we’ve got to listen to him.”

“Wouldn’t miss him for the world,” said McTurk. “A lot of chaps thought that Romeo-Romeo woman was a bore. I didn’t. I liked her! ’Member when she began to hiccough in the middle of it? P’raps he’ll hiccough. Whoever gets into the Gym first, bags seats for the other two.”

* * * * *

There was no nervousness, but a brisk and cheery affability about Mr. Raymond Martin, M.P., as he drove up, watched by many eyes, to the Head’s house.

“Looks a bit of a bargee,” was McTurk’s comment. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he was a Radical. He rowed the driver about the fare. I heard him.”

“That was his giddy patriotism,” Beetle explained. After tea they joined the rush for seats, secured a private and invisible corner, and began to criticise. Every gas-jet was lit. On the little dais at the far end stood the Head’s official desk, whence Mr. Martin would discourse, and a ring of chairs for the masters.

Entered then Foxy, with official port, and leaned something like a cloth rolled round a stick against the desk. No one in authority was yet present, so the school applauded, crying: “What’s that, Foxy? What are you stealin’ the gentleman’s brolly for?--We don’t birch here. We cane! Take away that bauble!--Number off from the right”--and so forth, till the entry of the Head and the masters ended all demonstrations.

“One good job--the Common-room hate this as much as we do. Watch King wrigglin’ to get out of the draft.”

“Where’s the Raymondiferous Martin? Punctuality, my beloved ’earers, is the image o’ war--”

“Shut up. Here’s the giddy Dook. Golly, what a dewlap!” Mr. Martin, in evening dress, was undeniably throaty--a tall, generously designed, pink-and-white man. Still, Beetle need not have been coarse.

“Look at his back while he’s talkin’ to the Head. Vile bad form to turn your back on the audience! He’s a Philistine--a Bopper--a Jebusite--an’ a Hivite.” McTurk leaned back and sniffed contemptuously.

In a few colorless words, the Head introduced the speaker and sat down amid applause. When Mr. Martin took the applause to himself, they naturally applauded more than ever. It was some time before he could begin. He had no knowledge of the school--its tradition or heritage. He did not know that the last census showed that eighty per cent. of the boys had been born abroad--in camp, cantonment, or upon the high seas; or that seventy-five per cent. were sons of officers in one or other of the services--Willoughbys, Paulets, De Castros, Maynes, Randalls, after their kind--looking to follow their fathers’ profession. The Head might have told him this, and much more; but, after an hour-long dinner in his company, the Head decided to say nothing whatever. Mr. Raymond Martin seemed to know so much already.

He plunged into his speech with a long-drawn, rasping “Well, boys,” that, though they were not conscious of it, set every young nerve ajar. He supposed they knew--hey?--what he had come down for? It was not often that he had an opportunity to talk to boys. He supposed that boys were very much the same kind of persons--some people thought them rather funny persons--as they had been in his youth.

“This man,” said McTurk, with conviction, “is the Gadarene Swine.”

But they must remember that they would not always be boys. They would grow up into men, because the boys of to-day made the men of to-morrow, and upon the men of to-morrow the fair fame of their glorious native land depended.

“If this goes on, my beloved ’earers, it will be my painful duty to rot this bargee.” Stalky drew a long breath through his nose.

“Can’t do that,” said McTurk. “He ain’t chargin’ anything for his Romeo.”

And so they ought to think of the duties and responsibilities of the life that was opening before them. Life was not all--he enumerated a few games, and, that nothing might be lacking to the sweep and impact of his fall, added “marbles.” “Yes, life was not,” he said, “all marbles.”