Balefanio - tmp0

Thinking of bills was always unpleasant. He was in the hell of a mess over bills now. The people at the Garage wouldn't wait much longer. They were always the worst. The tailor was not serious. The gramophone shop he could square. God only knew what Mother would say to the Buttery bills. Anyhow, he couldn't expect any money from her this term. She'd been awfully decent already. Anne had long ago taken to flatly refusing loans. He'd had a lot from Farncombe and a lot more from Gerald Ramsbotham—but, after all, Gerald could afford it. All these sources were dry for the present.

I must wire to Edward Blake, Maurice thought, and ask him to come down for a few days. He'd written to Edward already, but Edward was hope­less. He never answered letters. And it was really essential that he should come at once. I'll wire to­day, now, on the way back from Jimmy's, Maurice decided. Edward might be able to help. Maurice avoided the word "pay" even in his own mind. It was unpleasant to think of cadging. But Edward had such a lot of money and such a casual, hap­hazard way of spending it—and the thought of money was like a nice warm fire. Maurice felt he wanted to be near it. It would be nice to see Edward.

Crossing the College Court, he mounted the stair­case to Jimmy's room. Knocked. Jimmy's secretary opened the door. As usual, she was very bright.

"The Tutor won't be a moment now."

Maurice sat down with a faint sigh, wishing his gown wasn't so torn. Jimmy always kept you waiting. At last the secretary emerged from the inner room.

"Will you go in, please?"

Maurice knocked. Jimmy's voice sounded very gruff: "Come in."

And, of course, he was busy writing. So busy that he didn't condescend to look up at Maurice for nearly a minute.

"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Scriven?"

And Maurice sat, on the edge of the chair, waiting while Jimmy turned over some papers, blotted a sheet, signed three forms and finally took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and cleaned the lenses with a silk handkerchief. His eyes moved round the familiar book-shelves to the challenge-cup on the mantelpiece at which he'd so often blankly stared while Jimmy's mild sar­casms glanced around him and he waited patiently for the sentence—so many weeks' gating, so much to pay, or just a warning. His eyes unconsciously assumed that look of injured, yet not resentful, innocence with which he would presently be saying: "Yes, sir, I see. Thank you, sir. Good morning."

At length Jimmy was ready.

"Now, Mr. Scriven, I dare say you know why I sent for you. It's about this affair out at Hunting­don last Saturday." .

"Yes, sir?" Maurice looked helpful.

"Well, I don't propose to go into a lot of details which may, or may not, have been exaggerated. I only want to say this: the Master and the Dean and I have discussed the whole affair, and we've come to the conclusion that this sort of thing can happen once too often—you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." This sounded bad, but Maurice was, at any rate, relieved that he hadn't got to do any more lying. He hadn't had an idea what to say.

"I needn't remind you of other occasions on which incidents of this sort have occurred." Jimmy smiled faintly for an instant, was immedi­ately grave. "We won't bring up old scores. I only want to warn you"—Jimmy took off his glasses again—"that if any more charges are brought against you, substantiated or unsub­stantiated, the Master will be obliged to send you down."

"Yes, sir, I quite understand."

"You will see that the damages are settled between you. I have talked to the lady concerned, and you can thank me that she will be satisfied with fifteen pounds."

"Yes, sir."

There was a long pause. Jimmy puffed squeakily at his pipe.

"Tell me, Maurice, why do you do this kind of thing?"

"I don't know, sir."

Jimmy rose, crossed slowly to the mantelpiece.

"I simply fail to understand it."

The clock ticked.

"Any sort of a damn fool can waste his time up here like that. But why do you?"

Maurice slightly shifted one foot.

"Do you know, your career at this college has been one of the biggest disappointments I've had in fifteen years?"

The clock ticked, incredibly loud.

"You could have been more to the life of this college than any other man of your year. I wonder if you'll ever realise that."

Maurice moved the other foot until the toes of his shoes were in line.

"And I'm not thinking only of the college. Have you ever considered what's going to happen to you when you leave this place? What sort of a position do you think you can make for yourself in the world? You can't simply bluff your way through life. That doesn't work."

"No, sir," said Maurice faintly. Jimmy knocked out his pipe.

"When you leave this place, you'll have to make a very big change. If you can. If you can."

"Yes, sir."

The clock ticked and ticked. Jimmy scratched the bowl of his pipe with a small sharp tool: "Very well. That's all I wanted to say."

Maurice did not rise too quickly to his feet:

"Thank you very much, sir, for helping us about the damages."

This visibly pleased Jimmy. He said:

"The best way you can thank me is to try and make this term a little different from your others."

"Yes, sir, I'll try."

Maurice hurried down the staircase, out across the Court. Well, he'd got off much better than he'd hoped. Jimmy was in a soft mood. The only snag was the fifteen quid. How in God's name was he to raise it? Gerald must be made to pay at least half—more than half—he could afford it. But even so—yes, certainly I must wire to Edward at once, thought Maurice. And it'll be worth it if I put "Reply prepaid." That'd be two bob. He'd only got a quid, which he didn't want to break into till this evening. But there was the college porter at the gate in his silk hat. Maurice headed for him.

"Oh, Brougham, darling, do lend me two bob till this evening."

"I'm afraid I've got nothing but a shilling on me, Mr. Scriven."

"Oh, well, that'll do beautifully," said Maurice, reflecting that after all he'd risk Edward's not having the energy to answer.

This term, the afternoon was always a bad time for Maurice. For eighteen months now, he hadn't

been allowed by the doctor to play games. His heart was supposed to be strained by a motor-bike crash. He never noticed it. But it was a nuisance, because Gerald Ramsbotham played rugger, and Hughes and Moody squash, and Farncombe rowed; so that very often he was left between lunch and tea-time alone. Maurice hated being alone, even for a moment.

He paused outside the College Hall, wondering what to do. Occasionally, at this time of day, there crept into his mind, like a faint unpleasant smell, the thought of work. He'd done absolutely no­thing now, since last summer. About twice a term there was a paper set, but it was easy to bring in a few cribs. As for his essays—that reminded him, he might go and fetch the essay from Farncombe's digs. No, he hated copying out essays when alone. It was much less trouble when one was a bit tight and the room full of people.

So he decided on the gramophone shop. It was nice to pass a dreary spring afternoon there, in one of the sound-proof cabinets, playing through dozens of records and buying one or two—they were very long-suffering. He was nearly certain to meet somebody there whom he knew. He knew half Cambridge.

By half-past four, Maurice's room was full of people. And Maurice came bursting in upon them

in great spirits, waving a bag of cakes and the records he'd bought'

"Hullo, you chaps!" he cried—his pale face puckering up into delighted smiles and flushing deeply, so that the veins stood out on his temples: "Hasn't the old bitch brought you any tea yet?"

He was so delighted to see them all that every­body brightened up at once, as they almost always did when Maurice appeared. They started the gramophone playing; and when the landlady came up with the tea, Maurice threw his arms round her neck: