Free The Elderbrook Brothers by Gerald Bullet Page B

Lamble himself. Both Mr Lamble and his friend Mr Plover were said to be at daggers drawn with the sarcastic Mr Fletton, the headmaster’s second-in-command: a circumstance much to their credit in the general estimation. Mr Fletton had a fanatical dislike of smoking, and the other day (so Jerry’s story ran) he had found Mr Lamble smoking his pipe in the masters’ Common Room with a pile of exercise books in front of him which he was busy marking. ‘Working or smoking, which is it?’ said Mr Fletton. ‘Both,’ said Mr Lamble. ‘So you can do two things at once, can you, Lamble? What a talented young fellow you are!’ ‘I can do better than that, dear Mr Fletton,’ said Lamble. ‘I can do three things at once. I can work, I can smoke, and I can mind my own business.’ On the face of it the story was an improbable one, but boys who had suffered much in their time from Mr Fletton’s tongue were resolved to believe it. The hockey-match was tame by comparison. St Swithins played hockey as well as football and cricket, all games being in theory optional, though the moral obligation to play something was in practice irresistible. There was a school of thought which considered hockey a girlish pastime, but Jerry Cockle made this particular match sound like a massacre. ‘And would you believe it, Brooky, we’ve had a challenge from a Girls’ High School. Imagine the cheek of them!’
    And all this while the two boys were thinking, not of hockey, nor yet of Mr Lamble’s brilliant retort, but of that strange uncomfortable moment in Longbarrow Wood last summer, when invisibly, without sign or sound, the delicate filament of their comradeship, drawn too tight, had snapped.
    Mr Surrey’s visit carried no such undertones. Long, fair, freckled, curly-headed, Arthur Surrey was the very newest and youngest of the masters and a prime favourite with the Head, who, in introducing him to the little boys he was to teach, had rather the air of Santa Claus presenting them with an exceptionally large and beautiful toy-rabbit to play with. ‘The son of my oldest friend,’ he said superfluously; and stood smiling encouragement while Mr Surrey, plunging straight into his duties, set the whole class noisily chanting their multiplication tables. Frank and sunny was Mr Surrey’s style, guileless and good-natured with no complicating humour or reserve in his character. He flung himself with a will into teaching the little boys, doing it (as the Scriptures enjoined) with all his might; but his secret ambition, which he confided to everyone, which he carolled from the housetops, which he sunned with his smiles and nourished with his heart’s blood, was to be a missionary, to carry the light of Camden Town into darkest Africa. In addition to taking a form he taught games and exercised a brotherly supervision over the rough-and-tumble of the playground during break, saying at intervals ‘Now then, old chap! Not too rough with the little fellows!’ or ‘Break away there, boys! It’s a playground, not a battlefield.’ Into almost every lesson Mr Surrey contrived to drag a mention of Dr Livingstone, or some other hero of what he was fond of calling the mission field, a phrase that encouraged the boys— though all but the smallest knew better—to picture all heathendom as a large green meadow vocal with hymn-singing blacks.
    â€˜Well, Elderbrook old man, how are you feeling?’
    â€˜Fine, sir.’
    â€˜That’s the style. Soon be out and about again. You’ve had a bit of a rough passage, I know.’
    Though one could hardly help liking Mr Surrey, in spite of his being such an ass, Felix was embarrassed by the solemn gleam in his eye. He was afraid Mr Surrey was going to call him a brave fellow or something of that kind. To be applauded by Sister for being a good patient was pleasant enough, but MrSurrey’s laudations were