Jeremy and Hamlet/Chapter 7

EREMY was miserable. He was sitting on the high ground above the cricket field. The warm summer air wrapped him as though in a cloak; at his feet the grass was bright shrill green, then as it fell away it grew darker, tumbling into purple shadow as it curved to the flattened plateau. Behind him the wood was like a wall of painted steel. Far away the figures of the cricketers were white dolls moving against the bright red brick of the school buildings. One little white cloud shaped like an elephant, like a rent torn in the blue canvas of the sky, hung motionless above his head; and he watched this, waiting for it to lengthen, to fade into another shape, formless, until at last, shredded into scraps of paper, it vanished. He watched the cloud and thought: “I’d like to roll him down the hill and never see him again.”

He was thinking of young Baltimore, who was sitting close to him. He was doing nothing but stare and let his mouth hang slackly open. Because he did nothing so often was one of the reasons why Jeremy hated him so deeply. Baltimore was not an attractive-looking boy. He was perhaps ten years of age, white faced, sandy haired, furtive eyed, with two pimples on his forehead and one on his nose. He looked as though quite recently he had been rolled in the mud. And that was true. He had been.

From near at hand, from the outskirts of the wood, shrill cries could be heard singing:

Jeremy, hearing these voices, made a movement as though he would rise and pursue them, then apparently realized his impotence and stayed where he was.

“Beasts!” said Baltimore, and suddenly broke into a miserable crying, a wretched, snivelling, gasping wheeze.

Jeremy looked at him with disgust.

“You do cry the most awful lot,” he said. “If you didn’t cry so much they wouldn’t laugh at you.”

He gloomily reflected over his fate. The summer term, only a week old, that should have been the happiest of the year, was already the worst that he had known at Thompson’s.

On his arrival, full of health, vigour and plans, old Thompson had taken him aside and said:

“Now, Cole, I’ve something for you to do this term. I want you to be kind to a new boy who has never been away from home before and knows nothing about school life. I want you to be kind to him, look after him, see that no one treats him harshly, make him feel that he is still at home. You are getting one of the bigger boys here now, and you must look after the small ones.”

Jeremy was not displeased when he heard this. It gave him a sense of importance that he liked; moreover he had but recently read “Tom Brown,” and Tom, whom he greatly admired, had been approached in just this way about Arthur, and Arthur, although he had seemed tiresome at first, had developed very well, had had a romantic illness and become a first-class cricketer.

His first vision of Baltimore had been disappointing. He had found him sitting on his play-box in the passage, snivelling in just that unpleasant way that he had afterwards made so peculiarly his own. He told Jeremy that what he wanted to do was to go home to his mother at once, that his name was Percy, and that he had been kicked on the leg twice.

“You mustn’t tell the others that your name’s Percy,” said Jeremy, “or you’ll never hear the last of it.”

It appeared, however, from certain cries heard in the distance, that Baltimore had already done this.

Jeremy wondered then why he had been selected for this especial duty. He was not by any means one of the older boys in the school, nor one of the more important. He foresaw trouble.

Baltimore had been informed that Jeremy was to look after him.

“Mr. Thompson says you’re to look after me,” he said, “and not let the boys kick me or take things out of my play-box; and if they do I’m to tell Mr. Thompson.”

Jeremy’s cheeks paled with horror as he heard this declaration.

“Oh, I say, you mustn’t do that,” he declared. “That would be sneaking. You mustn’t tell Thompson things.”

“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore, producing a large cake of chocolate from his play-box and proceeding to eat it.

“Oh, because—because—sneaking’s worse than anything.”

“My mother said I was to,” said Baltimore.

“And you mustn’t talk about your mother either,” said Jeremy, “nor any of your people at home.”

“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore.

“Because they’ll rag you if you do.”

Baltimore nodded his head in a determined manner.

“I will if they kick me,” he said.

That evening was an unhappy one. Jeremy, kept by the matron over some silly business connected with his underclothes, came late into the dormitory to discover a naked Baltimore being beaten with hair-brushes. That was a difficult moment for him, but he dealt with it in the traditional manner of school heroes. He rushed into the midst of the gang, rescued Percy and challenged the room. He was popular and known for a determined fighter, so there was some laughter and jeering; but Baltimore was allowed to creep into his bed.

Next morning the school understood that young Stocky Cole had a new protégé and that it was that terrible new boy Pimply Percy. Jeremy’s best friend, Riley minor, spoke to him seriously about it.

“I say, Stocky, it isn’t true that you’ve taken up with that awful new kid?”

“Thompson says I’ve got to look after him,” Jeremy explained.

“But he’s the worst of the lot,” Riley complained disgustedly.

“Well, I’ve got to anyway,” said Jeremy shortly.

The sad part of it was that Baltimore was by no means grateful for Jeremy’s championship.

“You might have come in earlier,” he said. “I don’t call that looking after me.”

He now followed Jeremy like a shadow, a complaining, snivelling, whining shadow.

Jeremy expostulated.

“Look here,” he said. “We needn’t be together all the time. If you’re in trouble or anything you just give me a shout. I’m sure to be round somewhere.”

But Baltimore shook his head.

“That isn’t what Mr. Thompson said,” he remarked. “He said that you’d look after me. But how can you look after me if you’re not there?”

“He didn’t mean us to be together the whole time,” said Jeremy.

The thing was impossible. He could keep his own small fry in order, although the jeers and insults of those who had until this term been his admiring friends were very hard to bear. But what was he to do, for instance, about Cracky Brown? Cracky was captain of the cricket, thirteen years of age and going to Eton next term. He was one of three heroes allowed a study, and he was fagged for by several of the new boys, including Baltimore. He had already given young Baltimore several for breaking a cup and saucer. How could Jeremy, aged ten and a half, and in the lower fourth, go up to Cracky and say: “Look here, Brown, you’ve got to leave Baltimore alone,” and yet this was exactly what Baltimore expected Jeremy to do. Baltimore was a boy with one idea.

“Mr. Thompson said you were to see they didn’t hit me,” he complained.

“Don’t call him Mr. Thompson,” urged Jeremy. “Nobody does.”

Here on the hillside Jeremy moodily kicked the turf and watched the shredding cloud. Another week of this and he would be more laughed at than any other boy in the school. Had it been the winter term his prowess at football might have saved the situation, but he had never been very good at cricket, and never would be. He hated it and was still in third game among all the kids and wasters.

It would all have been so much easier, he reflected, had he only found Baltimore possible as a companion. But he thought that he had never loathed any one so much as this snivelling, pimply boy, and something unregenerate in him rose triumphant in his breast when he saw Baltimore kicked—and this made it much more difficult for him to stop the kicking.

What was he to do about it? Appeal to Thompson, of course, he could not. He had promised to do his best and do his best he must. Then the brilliant idea occurred to him that he would write to Uncle Samuel and ask his advice. He did not like writing letters—indeed, he loathed it—and his letters were blotched and illegible productions when they were finished, but at least he could make the situation clear to Uncle Samuel and Uncle Samuel always knew the right thing to do.

At the thought of his uncle a great wave of homesickness swept over him. He saw the town and the High Street with all the familiar shops, and the Cathedral, and his home with the dark hall and the hat-rack, and Hamlet running down the stairs, barking, and Mary with her spectacles and Uncle Samuel’s studio—he was even for a moment sentimental over Aunt Amy.

He shook himself and the vision faded. He would not be beaten by this thing. He turned to Baltimore.

“I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” he said. “I’m only looking after you because I promised Thompson. You can have your choice. I’ll leave you alone and let every one kick you as much as they like, and then you can go and sneak to Thompson. That won’t help you a bit; they’ll only kick you all the more. But if you behave decently and stop crying and come to me when you want anything I’ll see that none of the smaller boys touch you. If Cracky wants to hit you I can’t help it, but he hits everybody, so there’s nothing in that. Now, what is it to be?”

His voice was so stern that Baltimore stopped snivelling and stared at him in surprise.

“All right,” he said. “I won’t follow you everywhere.”

Jeremy got up. “You stay here till I’ve got to the bottom of the hill. I’ll sit next you at tea and see they don’t take your grub.”

He nodded and started away. Baltimore sat there, staring with baleful eyes.

Then a strange thing occurred; let the psychologists explain it as they may. Jeremy suddenly began to feel sorry for Baltimore. There is no doubt at all that the protective maternal sense is very strong in the male as well as the female breast. Jeremy had known it before even with his tiresome sister Mary. Now Baltimore did what he was told and only appeared at certain intervals. Jeremy found himself then often wondering what the kid was about, whether any one was chastising him, and if so, how the kid was taking it. After the first week Baltimore was left a great deal alone, partly because of Jeremy’s championship, and partly because he was himself so boring and pitiful that there was nothing to be done with him.

He developed very quickly into that well-known genus of small boy who is to be seen wandering about the playground all alone, kicking small stones with his feet, slouching, his cap on the back of his head, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, a look of utter despair on his young face. He was also the dirtiest boy that Thompson’s had ever seen, and that is saying a great deal. His fingers were dyed in ink; his boots, the laces hanging from them, were caked in mud; his collar was soiled and torn; his hair matted and unbrushed. Jeremy, himself often dirty, nevertheless with an innate sense of cleanliness, tried to clean him up. But it was hopeless. Baltimore no longer snivelled. He was now numb with misery. He stared at Jeremy as a wild animal caught by the leg in a trap might stare.

Jeremy began to be very unhappy. He no longer considered what the other boys might say, neither their jeers nor their laughter. One evening, coming up to Baltimore in the playground, he caught his arm.

“You can come and do prep with me to-night if you like,” he said.

Baltimore continued to kick pebbles.

“Has any one been going for you lately?” he asked. Baltimore shook his head.

“I wish I was dead,” he replied.

This seemed melodramatic.

“Oh, you’ll be all right soon,” said Jeremy.

But he could get nothing out of him. Some of the boy’s loneliness seemed to penetrate his own spirit.

“I say, you can be as much with me as you like, you know,” he remarked awkwardly.

Baltimore nodded his head and moved away.

Bitterly was Jeremy to regret that word of his. It was as though Baltimore had laid a trap for him, pretending loneliness in order to secure that invitation. He was suddenly once again with Jeremy everywhere.

And now he was no longer either silent or humble. Words poured from his mouth, words inevitably, unavoidably connected with himself and his doings, his fine brave doings—how he was this at home and that at home, how his aunt had thought the one and his mother the other, how his father had given him a pony and his cousin a dog. …

Now round every corner his besmudged face would be appearing, his inky fingers protruding, his voice triumphantly proclaiming:

“I’m coming with you now, Cole. There’s an hour before prep.”

And strangely now, in spite of himself, Jeremy liked it. He was suddenly touched by young Baltimore and his dirt and his helplessness. Later years were to prove that Jeremy Cole could be always caught, held and won by something misshapen, abused, cast out by society. So now he was caught by young Baltimore. He did his sums for him (when he could—he was no great hand at sums), protected him from Tubby Smith, the bully of the lower fourth, shepherded him in and out of meals, took him for walks on Sunday afternoons. …

He was losing Riley. That hurt him desperately. Nevertheless he continued in his serious, entirely unsentimental way to look after Baltimore.

And was young Baltimore grateful? We shall see.

One day when the summer term was about a month old a very dreary game of cricket was pursuing its slow course in third game. The infants concerned in it were sleepily watching the efforts of one after another of their number to bowl Corkery Minimus. Corkery was not, as cricket is considered at Lord’s, a great cricketer, but he was a stolid, phlegmatic youth, too big for third game and too lazy to wake up and so push forward into second. He stood stolidly at his wicket, making a run or two occasionally in order to poach the bowling. Jeremy was sitting in the pavilion, his cap tilted forward over his eyes, nearly asleep, and praying that Corkery might stay in all the afternoon and so save him from batting. One of the younger masters, Newsom, a youth fresh from Cambridge, was presiding over the afternoon and longing for six o’clock.

Suddenly he heard a thin and weedy voice at his ear:

“Please, sir, do you think I might bowl? I think I could get him out.”

Newsom pulled himself in from his dreams and gazed wearily down upon the grimy face of Baltimore.

“You!” he exclaimed. Baltimore was not beloved by the masters.

“Yes, sir,” Baltimore said, his cold, green eyes fixed earnestly upon Newsom’s face.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Newsom said wearily; “anything for a change.”

Had any one been watching Baltimore at that moment they would have seen a curious thing. A new spirit inhabited the boy’s body. Something seemed suddenly to stiffen him; his legs were no longer shambly, his eyes no longer dead. He was in a moment moving as though he knew his ground and as though he had first and royal right to be there.

Of course, no one noticed this. There was a general titter when it was seen that Baltimore had the ball in his hand. Corkery turned round and sniggered to the wicket-keeper, and the wicket-keeper sniggered back.

Baltimore paid no attention to anybody. He ran to the wicket and delivered an underhand lob. A second later Corkery’s bails were on the ground. Again, had any one noticed, he would have perceived that the delivery of that ball was no ordinary one, that the twist of the arm as it was delivered was definite and assured and by no means accidental.

No one noticed anything except that Corkery was at length out; although he had been batting for an hour and ten minutes, he had made only nine runs. Baltimore’s next three balls took three wickets, Jeremy’s amongst them. No one was very enthusiastic about this. The balls were considered “sneaks,” and just the kind that Pimply Percy would bowl. Corkery, in fact, was extremely indignant and swore he would “take it out” of Pimples in the dormitory that evening.

Very odd was Baltimore over this. No sign of any feeling whatever. Jeremy expected that he would be full that evening of his prowess. Not a word.

Jeremy himself was proud of his young friend. It was as though he had possessed an ugly and stupid puppy who, it was suddenly discovered, could balance spoons on the end of his nose.

He told Riley about it. Riley was disgusted. “You and your Percy,” he said. “You can jolly well choose, Stocky. It’s him or me. He’s all right now. The other fellows leave him alone. Why can’t you drop him?”

Jeremy could not explain why, but he did not want to drop him. He liked having something to look after.

Next week something more occurred. Baltimore was pushed up into second game. It was, indeed, very necessary that he should be. Had he stayed in third game that galaxy of all the cricketing talents would have been entirely demoralised; no one could withstand him. Wickets fell faster than ninepins. He gained no popularity for this. He was, indeed, beaten in the box-room with hair-brushes for bowling “sneaks.” He took his beating without a word. He seemed suddenly to have found his footing. He held up his head, occasionally washed his face, and stared superciliously about him.

Jeremy now was far keener about young Baltimore’s career than he had ever been about his own. Securing an afternoon “off,” he went and watched his friend’s first appearance in second game. Knowing nothing about cricket, he was nevertheless clever enough to detect that there was something natural and even inevitable in Baltimore’s cricket. Not only in his bowling, but also in his fielding. He recognised it, perhaps, because it was the same with himself in football. Awkward and ill at ease as he was on the cricket field, he moved with perfect confidence in Rugby, knowing at once where to go and what to do. So it was now with Baltimore. In that game he took eight wickets for eighteen runs.

The school began now to talk about the new prodigy. There were, of course, two sides in the matter, many people declaring that they were “sneaky,” low-down balls that anybody could bowl if they were dishonest enough to do so. Others said that there was nothing low-down about it, and that young Baltimore would be in first game before he knew where he was. On his second day in second game Baltimore took Smith Major’s wicket first ball, and Smith Major had batted twice for the first eleven. After this the great Cracky himself came and watched him. He said nothing, but next day Baltimore was down for first game.

Jeremy now was bursting with pride. He tried to show Baltimore how immensely pleased he was.

In a corner after tea he talked to him.

“There’s never been a new kid his first term in first game before, I don’t think,” said Jeremy, regardless of grammar. “They’ll play you for the second eleven, I expect.”

“They’re sure to,” said Baltimore calmly; “and then they’ll play me for the first.”

Strange that Jeremy, who hated above all things “side” in his fellow human beings, was not repelled by this. Here in Baltimore was the feu sacré. Jeremy recognized its presence and bowed to it. Small boys are always fond of anything of which they are proud, and so Jeremy now, in spite of the green eyes, the arrogant, aloof attitude, the unpleasant personal habits, had an affection for Baltimore—the affection of the hen whose ugly duckling turns out a swan.

“You don’t seem very pleased about it,” he said, looking at Baltimore curiously.

“What’s there to be pleased about?” said Baltimore coldly. “Of course, I knew I could play cricket. No one in this rotten place can play. I can bat, too, only they always put me in last.”

“Will you walk out to Pocker’s after dinner to-morrow?” Jeremy asked.

“All right,” said Baltimore indifferently.

In the following week Baltimore played for the second eleven, took eight wickets for twenty runs, and himself made thirty. A fortnight later he was down on the boards in the first eleven for the Lower Templeton match. Now, indeed, the whole school was talking about him, masters and boys alike. His batting was another matter from his bowling. There was no doubt at all that he was a natural cricketer. Mr. Rochester, the games master, said he was the most promising cricketer that he had yet seen at Thompson’s, remarkable style for so young a boy, an extraordinarily fine eye. The Lower Templeton match was the match of the season. Lower Templeton was a private school some ten miles away, and Thompson’s strongest rivals; they had more boys than Thompson’s, and two times out of three they won the cricket match. They were entirely above themselves and jeered at Thompson’s, implying that they showed the most wonderful condescension in coming over to play at all. Consequently there burned in the heart of every boy in Thompson’s—yes, and in the heart of every master and every servant—a longing desire that the swollen-headed idiots should be beaten.

Boys are exceedingly susceptible to atmosphere, and in no time at all the first weeks of Baltimore’s stay at Thompson’s were entirely forgotten. He was a new creature, a marvel, a miracle. Young Corkery was heard at tea to offer him his last sardine, although only a fortnight before he had belaboured his posterior with hair-brushes. Cracky Brown took in him now a fatherly interest, and inflicted on him only the lightest fagging and inquired anxiously many times a day about his health.

Jeremy surrendered absolutely to this glamour, but it was to more than mere glamour that he was surrendering. He did not realise it, but he had never in all his life before had any friend who had been a success. His father and mother, his sister Mary, his Uncle Samuel—none of these could be said to be in the eyes of the world successes. And at school it had been the same; his best friend, Riley, was quite undistinguished in every way, and the master whom he liked best, old Podgy Johnson, was more than undistinguished—he was derided.

It was not that he liked vulgar applause for his friend and himself enjoyed to bathe in its binding light. It was, quite simply, that he loved his friend to be successful, that it was “fun” for him, amusing, exciting, and warmed him all over. No longer need he feel any pity for Baltimore; Baltimore was happy now; he must be.

It must be confessed that Baltimore showed no especial signs of being happy when the great day arrived. At breakfast he accepted quite calmly the portions of potted meat, marmalade, sardines and pickles offered him by adoring admirers, and ate them all on the same plate quite impassively.

After dinner Jeremy and Riley took their places on the grass in front of the pavilion and waited for the game to begin. Riley was now very submissive, compelled to admit that after all Jeremy had once again showed his remarkable judgment. Who but Jeremy would have seen in Baltimore on his arrival at Thompson’s the seeds of greatness? He was forced to confess that he himself had been blind to them. With their straw hats tilted over their eyes, lying full-length on the grass, a bag of sweets between them, they were as happy as thieves.

In strict truth Jeremy’s emotions were not those precisely of happiness. He was too deeply excited, too passionately anxious for Baltimore’s success to be really happy. He could not hear the sweets crunching between his teeth for the beating of his heart. What followed was what any reader of school stories would expect to follow. Had Baltimore been precisely the handsome blue-eyed hero of one of Dean Farrar’s epics of boyhood, he could not have behaved more appropriately. Thompson’s went in first, and disaster instantly assailed them. Six wickets were down for ten owing to a diabolical fast bowler whom Lower Templeton had brought with them. Cracky Brown was the only Thompsonian who made any kind of a stand, and he had no one to stay with him until Baltimore came in and (Cracky content merely to keep up his wicket) made thirty-five. Thompson’s were all out for fifty-six. Lower Templeton then went in, and, because Cracky did not at once put on Baltimore to bowl, made thirty-four for two wickets. Baltimore then took the remaining eight wickets for seventeen. Lower Templeton were all out for fifty-one.

The excitement during the second innings had to be seen to be believed. Even old Thompson, who was known for his imperturbable temper, was seen to wipe his brow continually with a yellow handkerchief.

Thompson’s went in, and four wickets fell for eleven. Baltimore went in at fifth wicket, and made thirty-nine. Thompson’s were all out for sixty-one, and were sixty-six ahead of Lower Templeton. This was a good lead, and the hearts of Thompson’s beat high. Baltimore started well and took six of the Lower Templeton wickets for twenty; then he obviously tired. Cracky took him off, and Lower Templeton had three-quarters of an hour’s pure joy. As the school clock struck half-past six Lower Templeton had made sixty runs for eight wickets. Cracky then put Baltimore on again, and he took the remaining wickets for no runs. Thompson’s were victorious by six runs, and Baltimore was carried shoulder-high, amongst the plaudits of the surrounding multitudes, up to the school buildings.

Impossible to give any adequate idea of Jeremy’s pride and pleasure over this event. He did not share in the procession up to the school, but waited his time. Then, just before chapel, crossing the playground in the purple dusk, he passed Baltimore and another boy.

“Hullo! … I say …” He stopped.

Baltimore looked back over his shoulder. Jeremy could not precisely see the expression, but fancied it contemptuous. Most curiously, then, for the rest of the evening he was worried and unhappy. Why should he worry? Baltimore was his friend—must be, after all that Jeremy had done for him. Jeremy was too young and too unanalytical to know what it was that he wanted, but in reality he longed now for that protective sense to continue. He must still “have something to look after.” There were lots of things he could do for Baltimore. …

Next morning after breakfast he caught him alone, ten minutes before chapel. He was embarrassed and shy, but he plunged in: “I say—it was ripping yesterday. Weren’t you glad?”

Baltimore, looking at Jeremy curiously, shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re coming out next Sunday, aren’t you?” he went on.

Baltimore smiled. “I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” he said, in a rather feeble imitation of Jeremy’s voice. “If you behave all right, and don’t cry and tell me when any one kicks you, I’ll let you speak to me sometimes. Otherwise you keep off.”

He put his tongue out at Jeremy and swaggered off.

Jeremy stood there. He was hurt as he had never been before in his young life; he had, indeed, never known this kind of hurt.

some one came in.

“Hullo, Stocky! Coming up to chapel?”

“All right,” he answered, moving to get his books out of his locker. But he’d lost something, something awfully jolly. … He fumbled in his locker for it. He wanted to cry—like any kid. He was crying, but he wasn’t going to let Stokoe see it. He found an old fragment of liquorice stick. It mingled in his mouth with the salt taste of tears. So, dragging his head from his locker, he kicked Stokoe in amicable friendship, and they departed chapel-wards, tumbling over one another puppywise as they went.

But no more miserable boy sat in chapel that morning.

Two days later, turning the corner of the playground, he heard shrill crying. Looking farther, he perceived Baltimore twisting the arms of a miniature boy, the smallest boy in the school—Brown Minimus. He was also kicking him in tender places.

“Now will you give it me?” he was saying.

A second later Baltimore was, in his turn, having his arms twisted and his posterior kicked. As Jeremy kicked and twisted he felt a strange, a mysterious pleasure.

Baltimore tried to bite, then he said, “I’ll tell Thompson.”

“I don’t care if you do,” said Jeremy.

Yes, he felt a strange wild pleasure, but when that afternoon old Thompson genially said:

“Well, Cole, I think Baltimore’s found his feet now all right, hasn’t he?”

Jeremy said: “Yes, sir; he has.”

He felt miserable. He sat down and kicked the turf furiously with his toes. He had lost something, he knew not what; something very precious. …

some one called him, and he went off to join in a rag. Anyway, “Tom Brown” was a rotten book.