CHAPTER I

The guard's whistle sounded shrilly, and in John's ears it seemed to be cutting through his life as he stood on the platform at Sedley and felt his hand held in his father's farewell grasp. The last carriage door had been slammed, the perspiring porters mopped their brows under the hot September sun, the train drew back a little with a hissing of steam and a rasping of brakes, then slowly crawled forward. John ever afterwards carried a distinct impression of his father as he saw him that afternoon leaning out of the carriage window. The tanned face, the clear grey eyes and clean-cut features all stamped themselves upon his memory. The ring in his father's voice as he said--

"Good-bye, John--you'll soon settle down,"--then the long pause, the last look into his eyes, and the tightened hand. These impressions burnt themselves upon the boy's brain, and, somewhat overwhelmed with the pain of it all, he stood watching the train dwindle down the line. It drew out of sight, first the long length of carriage windows, then the shortened perspective, until the back of the guard's van covered the train, finally the lamps, the two buffers, and a coiled up gas connection--and a long stretch of shining steel rails that converged to a point. He wanted to run along that iron way, to catch that train, to get away from this terrible desolation creeping over him. He stood, lonely and miserable, in a crowd of shouting boys and porters struggling with luggage. Just outside the station, beyond the white palings where the ticket collector stood, was a waggonette packed with boys of all ages. John looked at them curiously. They were to be his companions, to form his life in the coming years.

In Amasia he had looked forward to mingling with boys of his own age and race, but now their noisy behaviour and boisterous good humour repelled him. He thought how much preferable was Ali with his quiet oriental manner. There was also another disconcerting experience which depressed him--his new clothes irritated him. He had worn trousers for a week now and hated them. His waistcoat was like a chain round his chest and he wanted to tear the vile Eton collar from his throat in rage. He longed for his loose open shirt, his easy shorts and socks. There were other clothes packed away in that white wooden box, with black iron flanges. John stared at his initials, black-lettered on the front--"J.N.D."--did they belong to him? Somehow they seemed to shout at him, to possess him, and the "N" in the middle grew and swelled until it dwarfed its companions. John was terribly afraid of that "N". Why hadn't the porter stuck the luggage label over it? He recalled what that awful boy, at the house where his father went to dine one day, had said, when he told him his name.

"Narcissus! Good Lord, you will get ragged!"

"Ragged--what's that?" he had asked.

"Oh--knocked about--chivied." And then, in a friendly tone, "You'd better keep that name quiet."

John must have stood thinking on the platform for a considerable time. It was almost empty. He would walk back to the school. His housemaster's wife had asked him to have tea with her. He instinctively liked Mrs. Fletcher. She was motherly and there was such a pleasant ring in her voice, also she was beautiful and probably young. Her cheeks were very fresh, as if she had walked in the wind all day, and John liked the style in which she did her hair. Fletcher too had attracted him, though he had not been able to notice him much, for his father had talked to him about Eastern affairs.

When John reached the school, he tapped on his housemaster's study door and entered. He was in no genial mood, but full of warlike thoughts. Mrs. Fletcher smiled at him as he entered and motioned for him to sit by her side. There were other boys in the room, seven or eight, all laughing and talking with Mr. Fletcher, and John wondered whether he would ever be on such familiar terms with the master as these boys were. There was something about the book-lined study which pleased John--it had such a homely look and Mr. Fletcher seemed all the more attractive because of his study. The books, portraits and pictures were interesting, the chairs were very comfortable, and Mrs. Fletcher gave attention to John. Soon he was laughing at something she had said which amused him immensely, and he laughed as only a boy can laugh. Mr. Fletcher turned from the group about him and looked across at John.

"Now I wonder what I am missing, Dean?" he said. "Come here. This is Mason--Rogers, Russell, Thomson, and Vernley." He indicated the boys with a sweep of his hand, and John surveyed his new schoolfellows. One boy attracted him, a heavily-built fellow with carefully brushed hair that was thick and shiny. John saw that he was strong, so strong that he looked ungainly in his suit, which tightened with every movement, but what attracted John was Vernley's smile, it was so good natured, and warm, like sunshine. He was pleased when Mr. Fletcher added--

"Vernley is in your dormitory, Dean." Then turning to the boy, "You must take charge of Dean until he finds his way about. Now you'd better get along, all you. Don't forget to see the Matron about your things, and chapel's at seven-thirty."

John followed the boys out into the corridor. He shivered as he closed the study door. On this side of it he was in the school and it looked so depressingly barren after the cosy study. He watched the other boys with envy as they walked down the corridor to the Matron's room. Vernley was among them, and seemed to have forgotten the master's injunction, but at the Matron's door he waited for John.

"Come along, our boxes are up in the dorm,--yours has been put next to mine--I'll show you the way up."

Putting his arm in John's he led the way, talking as they went. To John it was a novel experience. He had never talked to another English boy in this free manner, and the friendliness with which Vernley had taken his arm gave him a slight thrill. It was pleasant to be noticed like this, and already he liked his companion. There was something so placid and solid about him which appealed to John. There was nothing Eastern about this boy, he talked without reserve and his clear brown eyes seemed like those of a young animal rather than a human being.

Vernley sat down on John's bed and explained the various contrivances in the room. It was a long well-lit chamber with eight beds on either side, bordered by two long strips of carpet. The middle of the floor was bare.

"It's jolly cold too," said Vernley, "when you stand on it with the wind blowing over you."

"Stand on it, why?"

"Oh, it's Lindon's fad--he's a physical culture crank, he's prefect here. He makes us all strip night and morning and has us squirming on our backs with our legs in the air,--but he's quite a decent chap. You'll get on with him well."

"Why?"

"Oh, you look so splendidly fit--he's simply mad on fitness. He spends half his time torturing me to get my fat down."

"But you're strong," said John admiringly.

"Oh, yes, but it is not strength he believes in--it's what he calls form, the Greek ideal--he's always talking about some Greek johnny, and he's rather like one himself. What's the J.N. for?" Vernley broke off abruptly and stared at the box.

"John Narcissus--"

"Narcissus!"

"Yes--it's Greek too," John smiled, and Vernley laughed. John noticed that he had teeth like an animal's--white and strong.

"Well--they'll call you 'Cissy' for short."

"Oh, please don't tell them--I hate it," he said, looking at Vernley imploringly.

"Very well--then it'll be Scissors--that's more cutting!"

"I don't mind that--what's your name?"

"What do you think--there's only one name for all persons like myself--Tubby--isn't it a libel?"

"Yes--you're not too fat. I think you're--" John hesitated,

"Well, what--let's hear."

"You're quite--splendid."

Vernley laughed again in his fascinating way.

"Thanks--I can return that compliment."

John flushed. He was glad Vernley had laughed like that.

"That's strange, you know--saying that," added Vernley.

"Why?"

"Because most fellows never think about appearances--I always do, and you do. I loathe ugliness. Lindon's always preaching on that text. You'll hear him later, 'the good and the beautiful' that's his pet phrase. He's beautiful enough, but he isn't good."

"Why?--does he swear?"

"Good lord, yes--we all do, there's worse things than that." He stooped down and took a book out of the box at the foot of his bed. Then he glanced at a watch on his wrist.

"Glory!" he exclaimed, "it's a quarter past seven. Come along or we'll be late." He hurried out, John following. He wished Vernley had gone on talking, he interested him in Lindon. What was it Lindon did? Perhaps he drank secretly, or cribbed, or--John hurried on, his head filled with speculations. He was looking forward to seeing the terrible Lindon.