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White Feather, The

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<h3>IV THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR</h3> The borough of Wrykyn had been a little unfortunate—or fortunate, according to the point of view—in the matter of elections. The latter point of view was that of the younger and more irresponsible section of the community, which liked elections because they were exciting. The former was that of the tradespeople, who disliked them because they got their windows broken. Wrykyn had passed through an election and its attendant festivities in the previous year, when Sir Eustace Briggs, the mayor of the town, had been returned by a comfortable majority. Since then ill-health had caused that gentleman to resign his seat, and the place was once more in a state of unrest. This time the school was deeply interested in the matter. The previous election had not stirred them. They did not care whether Sir Eustace Briggs defeated Mr Saul Pedder, or whether Mr Saul Pedder wiped the political floor with Sir Eustace Briggs. Mr Pedder was an energetic Radical; but owing to the fact that Wrykyn had always returned a Conservative member, and did not see its way to a change as yet, his energy had done him very little good. The school had looked on him as a sportsman, and read his speeches in the local paper with amusement; but they were not interested. Now, however, things were changed. The Conservative candidate, Sir William Bruce, was one of themselves—an Old Wrykinian, a governor of the school, a man who always watched school-matches, and the donor of the Bruce Challenge Cup for the school mile. In fine, one of the best. He was also the father of Jack Bruce, a day-boy on the engineering side. The school would have liked to have made a popular hero of Jack Bruce. If he had liked, he could have gone about with quite a suite of retainers. But he was a quiet, self-sufficing youth, and was rarely to be seen in public. The engineering side of a public school has workshops and other weirdnesses which keep it occupied after the ordinary school hours. It was generally understood that Bruce was a good sort of chap if you knew him, but you had got to know him first; brilliant at his work, and devoted to it; a useful slow bowler; known to be able to drive and repair the family motor-car; one who seldom spoke unless spoken to, but who, when he did speak, generally had something sensible to say. Beyond that, report said little. As he refused to allow the school to work off its enthusiasm on him, they were obliged to work it off elsewhere. Hence the disturbances which had become frequent between school and town. The inflammatory speeches of Mr Saul Pedder had caused a swashbuckling spirit to spread among the rowdy element of the town. Gangs of youths, to adopt the police-court term, had developed a habit of parading the streets arm-in-arm, shouting "Good old Pedder!" When these met some person or persons who did not consider Mr Pedder good and old, there was generally what the local police-force described as a "frakkus". It was in one of these frakkuses that Linton had lost a valuable tooth. Two days had elapsed since Dunstable and Linton had looked in on Sheen for tea. It was a Saturday afternoon, and roll-call was just over. There was no first fifteen match, only a rather uninteresting house-match, Templar's versus Donaldson's, and existence in the school grounds showed signs of becoming tame. "What a beastly term the Easter term is," said Linton, yawning. "There won't be a thing to do till the house-matches begin properly." Seymour's had won their first match, as had Day's. They would not be called upon to perform for another week or more. "Let's get a boat out," suggested Dunstable. "Such a beastly day." "Let's have tea at the shop." "Rather slow. How about going to Cook's?" "All right. Toss you who pays." Cook's was a shop in the town to which the school most resorted when in need of refreshment. "Wonder if we shall meet Albert." Linton licked the place where his tooth should have been, and said he hoped so. Sergeant Cook, the six-foot proprietor of the shop, was examining a broken window when they arrived, and muttering to himself. "Hullo!" said Dunstable, "what's this? New idea for ventilation? Golly, massa, who frew dat brick?" "Done it at ar-parse six last night, he did," said Sergeant Cook, "the red-'eaded young scallywag. Ketch 'im—I'll give 'im—" "Sounds like dear old Albert," said Linton. "Who did it, sergeant?" "Red-headed young mongrel. 'Good old Pedder,' he says. 'I'll give you Pedder,' I says. Then bang it comes right on top of the muffins, and when I doubled out after 'im 'e'd gone." Mrs Cook appeared and corroborated witness's evidence. Dunstable ordered tea. "We may meet him on our way home," said Linton. "If we do, I'll give him something from you with your love. I owe him a lot for myself." Mrs Cook clicked her tongue compassionately at the sight of the obvious void in the speaker's mouth. "You'll 'ave to 'ave a forlse one, Mr Linton," said Sergeant Cook with gloomy relish. The back shop was empty. Dunstable and Linton sat down and began tea. Sergeant Cook came to the door from time to time and dilated further on his grievances. "Gentlemen from the school they come in 'ere and says ain't it all a joke and exciting and what not. But I says to them, you 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. Glad when it's all over, that's what I'll be." "'Nother jug of hot water, please," said Linton. The Sergeant shouted the order over his shoulder, as if he were addressing a half-company on parade, and returned to his woes. "You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. It's this everlasting worry and flurry day in and day out, and not knowing what's going to 'appen next, and one man coming in and saying 'Vote for Bruce', and another 'Vote for Pedder', and another saying how it's the poor man's loaf he's fighting for—if he'd only buy a loaf, now—'ullo, 'ullo, wot's this?" There was a "confused noise without", as Shakespeare would put it, and into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour's, closely followed by Stanning and Attell. "This is getting a bit too thick," said Barry, collapsing into a chair. From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook. "Let me jest come to you, you red-'eaded—" Roars of derision from the road. "That's Albert," said Linton, jumping up. "Yes, I heard them call him that," said Barry. "McTodd and I were coming down here to tea, when they started going for us, so we nipped in here, hoping to find reinforcements." "We were just behind you," said Stanning. "I got one of them a beauty. He went down like a shot." "Albert?" inquired Linton. "No. A little chap." "Let's go out, and smash them up," suggested Linton excitedly. Dunstable treated the situation more coolly. "Wait a bit," he said. "No hurry. Let's finish tea at any rate. You'd better eat as much as you can now Linton. You may have no teeth left to do it with afterwards," he added cheerfully. "Let's chuck things at them," said McTodd. "Don't be an ass," said Barry. "What on earth's the good of that?" "Well, it would be something," said McTodd vaguely. "Hit 'em with a muffin," suggested Stanning. "Dash, I barked my knuckles on that man. But I bet he felt it." "Look here, I'm going out," said Linton. "Come on, Dunstable." Dunstable continued his meal without hurry. "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." "And anyhow," said Barry, "I came here for tea, and I'm going to have it." Sergeant Cook was recalled from the door, and received the orders. "They've just gone round the corner," he said, "and that red-'eaded one 'e says he's goin' to wait if he 'as to wait all night." "Quite right," said Dunstable, approvingly. "Sensible chap, Albert. If you see him, you might tell him we shan't be long, will you?" A quarter of an hour passed. "Kerm out," shouted a voice from the street. Dunstable looked at the others. "Perhaps we might be moving now," he said, getting up "Ready?" "We must keep together," said Barry. "You goin' out, Mr Dunstable?" inquired Sergeant Cook. "Yes. Good bye. You'll see that we're decently buried won't you?" The garrison made its sortie. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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